The Adventures of a Secretary
by Thalaba
Summary: Tabitha Wentworth's family had other ideas about her future happiness...
1. Chapters 1 to 10

She loved horses.

Though she didn't realize it, Tabitha Wentworth was not the well-bought-up young woman to whom her Aunt Julia had tried to mould. She apparently had no hope of ever achieving the lofty status in society her cousins were constantly grasping for, neither through an advantageous marriage (the poor girl was particularly plain of course, what with the lank mousy brown hair and tanned complexion) nor cunning maneuvering (_"Sadly, your girl simply doesn't have the head for social climbing Dalton dear, she __**is**__ rather dull, utterly oblivious!"_). Her personal tastes were garish and gauche even though she had been counseled to more passive activities and demure dress; she didn't fit the exclusive Naval family circles Admiral Dalton Wentworth and Mrs. Julia Nicholson resided in and frequented, and however Aunt Julia would be loathed to find criticism with any Christian soul it was clear that Tabitha was uncoordinated, improper, and possibly a threat to the success her own daughters deserved. Deborah and Diana were lovely, behaved ladies after all and Tabitha. . .was not.

She loved horses. She felt at home with their undemanding nature and quiet strength and through riding she had gained the affection and regard of her male cousins whom she adored without question. She loved reading, where she could escape to beautiful days-gone-by and the end was as lovely as she expected life to be. She loved the outdoors, the flat plains around Annapolis on the Nicholson acreage promised life and freedom, and though she never would have been able to verbalize it, hardly even thought it, the open space offered a balm to the crushing claustrophobia found within her Aunt's world of stiff embroidery, folded hands, and perfect posture.

Things would be different once Papa brought her home.

It was inevitable. There was no other path and Tabitha cheerfully accepted her fate. The Admiral would need a hostess, a personal secretary, and, as he aged, a nurse to care for his needs. She loved her father, the only parent she had ever known, and Tabitha had never doubted the importance of her purpose by his side. He was an important man with many responsibilities. That was why she had been sent to live with her Aunt. It wasn't Papa's fault that a girl-child—especially a clumsy one—would invariably get in the way.

"I've found a position for you."

The _scritch-scratch_ of an elegant quill against thick government documents along with the continued ticking of a large Grandfather clock filled the silence of the Admiral's study while Tabitha clasped an re-clasped her calloused hands in front of her dark blue, high-necked day dress. She didn't like this dress, didn't care for it at all in fact, but her father would approve and this was the first time they had spoken privately since his return from the Indies last week. There were no embraces or showy scenes of emotion, that wasn't the Admiral's way. Her large guileless blue eyes narrowed slightly in confusion, fearing she had misunderstood.

"Papa?"

"A position." The Admiral's voice was abrupt, his tone vaguely disinterested. "Your Aunt has expressed a concern for your future and we agreed that your education with her is at an end." His hands seemed polished and made of leather as they shuffled the white paper. "I made an enquiry and found a position that should suit your skills."

"But Papa. . .I'll be coming home with you when—"

"I have no intention of opening Wentworth Manor," the Admiral stated, his glance hard on Tabitha's face for only the span of a moment before returning to his work. His eyes were an incredibly clear blue, not dark and boring like her own, and were perfectly placed within his oval-shaped face, the most intelligent face Tabitha had ever seen as far as she believed, the face she had been looking up to all her life. Even if for many years he had only been a portrait above a mantle. "I will be leaving Sunday to supervise another commission in the Indies and as of yet have no homecoming date with which to contend."

Tabitha blinked and stood ramrod straight in a disliked pair of flat shoes, the only kind Aunt Julia would purchase for her use. She wasn't going to cry. There was no need. Of course she wasn't. The Admiral was correct in his actions, he was still an imposing man, still ruled his ships with an iron fist—all her cousins said so. "Pack what you need and Julia will send the rest," an envelope was pushed across the commanding ancient oak desk. "The WB&A leaves at precisely _oh-six hundred_ and you will have to change lines before reaching Washington."

"Washing—"

"An Agent Thatcher will meet you at the D.C. terminal and explain your duties." His words contained an edge to them now at her outburst and Tabitha stopped herself from biting her lip. It was a nervous habit she had picked up from the boys and she knew Aunt Julia considered it vulgar for a woman to draw attention to her mouth in such a way. It wasn't that Tabitha agreed with that little bit of odd morality but just in case the older woman had brought it up Tabitha didn't wish to upset her father further. He was probably very tired. "Miss Thatcher represents a new government organization, small and virtually invisible." The Admiral's mouth curved up suddenly and Tabitha couldn't help smiling too. It was possible this could all work out for the best, and of course that was what her father wished for her, finally allowing her out into society. Her smiled widened while his faded back to strong stoicism. The Admiral trusted her. Papa trusted her. "You are an independent woman now and need to act like it, no more gallivanting about with unsuitable men."

Tabitha felt two pink spots bloom on her cheeks at that unexpected remark. Had Papa found fault with her cousins friends? Those were the only men Tabitha truly knew but never would she have called any of those sweet fellows _unsuitable_? She blinked her innocent eyes and nodded.

"Don't worry Papa, I'll make you proud."

He didn't respond as she left to collect her things.

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"Forgive me for saying, but you're older than I was expecting."

Tabitha blinked and tilted her head, giving a small purposeful shrug once she determined the curly-haired brunette was not put out over this realization. In the two hours she had known the not-so-much older woman, Agent Rebecca Thatcher could be considered a sensible, no-nonsense sort, from her buttoned cuffs and keen gaze to how she had asked Tabitha if dinner had been served en-route and whether or not the newly displaced girl would care to eat before taking in her new residence.

There was nothing extraordinary about the Suremount Hotel, the three story red brick structure that was now to be her home as well as place of work, nothing to truly distinguish it from the rows of buildings that occupied this particular street in the populated District except for the brightly polished nameplate over the respectable entranceway. Inside, however, was fitted with gleaming mahogany wood and fresh, thick wallpaper the like of which Tabitha had only ever seen in the homes of upper echelon Annapolis society. The visible lobby may not have been wide but it was deep, the solid staircase hugging walls lighted with sconces and decorated with images of grim-faced officials—sepia toned photographs and portraits alike—but rather than dour Tabitha thought that, coupled with the large front windows, the space lent a touch of quiet country to the big city.

There was a rack of rifles displayed in this room however.

Agent Thatcher placed a simple locked box on the desk between them and stopped to look Tabitha in the eye. "Not that I'm disappointed; I'm pleased. My superior said to expect a fifteen year old girl, and honestly I don't believe someone that young would be a suitable choice to serve this establishment." There was a lilt to her softly thin pink lips and if Tabitha had had any less sense of station she could have imagined they were friends waiting for afternoon tea.

"I'm twenty Ma'am—"

"Rebecca is fine."

". . .Yes." That wasn't at all fine for Tabitha but she leaned forward a little, eagerly, her smile a shock of white to gloss over the awkwardness she felt. "I'll do my best Ma'am. I'm very organized and I've been told I take really good notes." Agent Thatcher may have raised her eyebrows and she may have sighed, but Tabitha was lifted by the returned nod. Curiously excited as Rebecca opened the lock box with a tiny brass key seemingly out of nowhere, the young woman's eyes grew wide as a heavy envelope was handed over. It was sealed and it would have been terribly rude to simply tear in right then and there no matter how much she was dying to do just that. "What's—"

"Those are waivers I'll need you to sign before I can give you further clearance as well as your introductory wage." The box was secreted away and Tabitha was regarded once again, thankfully not harshly. "As part of our senior staff your accommodations are taken care of; hopefully the pay is not _much_ less than you were informed." Tabitha made no comment on that; she hadn't been informed about wages at all. "You will be privy to certain levels of classified information Miss Wentworth," Rebecca's tone became suddenly serious and Tabitha perked up, her attention fixed. "Complete discretion will be called for in your position of manager and clerk here at the hotel."

"That's what I'll be doing then?" Tabitha couldn't help but ask, skipping the more important issues of secrecy not to mention what exactly she would be expected to keep to herself.

"That's what the government will consider you."

"Like a secretary?"

"Yes. You'll be in charge of the everyday running of the Suremount—it's sole purpose to house our little organization." Agent Thatcher smiled and made a small dismissive gesture. "As well as any other tasks I or other agents seem fit to assign you, most particularly—" there was a frustrated noise, "our current filing system, which is in a desperate state. That will be your top priority. Unfortunately." All Tabitha could do was nod. It was so exciting! And already she had so much to do! "For now though, think of what you may need to settle in."

The answer was quick.

"Could you recommend a seamstress Ma'am?"

". . .A seamstress? You need clothes?" A line appeared between Rebecca's brows. "Didn't I send two bags upstairs?"

"That was mostly books," Tabitha explained, all logic. "My novels. If I hadn't brought them with me my Aunt would have disposed of them somehow."

There was a moment of silence where Tabitha sat, her face completely open and honest and not realizing that Agent Thatcher was fighting between amusement and exasperation.

". . .Madame Vera is a well-known dressmaker." Tabitha beamed.

"Thank you Ma'am!" She stood and put forward her hand to shake, snapping it back as she knocked over a closed ink pot and several pens. "Ah. . .Ma'am? May I ask what your-_our_-organization is?" Rebecca had closed her mouth on another sigh.

"Of course Miss Wentworth. You've just joined the ranks of the American Secret Service. Welcome aboard."

The 'filing system,' as Agent Thatcher had called it, was actually a walk-in closet behind the clean-lined front desk shelved floor to ceiling and filled with a monstrous mess of newspapers, personnel reports, and unorganized photographs, a mish-mash of identification and security intelligence that looked to have been simply dumped upon whatever available shelf for a future moment that had never come. Throwing Aunt Julia's well-meant moral standards to the wind, Tabitha had been biting her plump bottom lip all morning, the years of her life stretching forth before her decorated in faded ink and yellowed paper.

Tabitha mentally slapped herself. She was being ridiculous and that kind of defeatist thinking would only embarrass the Admiral, Agent Thatcher, and, ultimately, herself. She was a voracious reader and this simply could not be as bad as she was making it out to be.

Around noon a man placed a pistol on the desk.

"You're goin' to tell me who letcha in here girl, otherwise that frilly little dress o' yours is goin' get messed up when I toss you out."

In her brand new heeled boots Tabitha stood nearly two inches above the man whose hair was the colour of rich farm earth and eyes the refreshing blue of the morning sky above the cold North Atlantic. His short stature and slender build did nothing to detract from the purposeful aura and strength of character that, in Tabitha's meagre opinion, surrounded him, white shirt, suspenders, and all. Had he just come from upstairs? He had no coat or hat. Even though he seemed fit to spit, she would have sworn the man had the face of an angel. . . encompassed by the fiery spirit of one Edward Rochester. The thought dazzled. She instinctively glanced down on her vibrant rose and white day dress, a tiny set of reading glasses resting upon her chest, and looked back at the man with worried eyes. It wasn't nearly as frilly as some of her other pieces.

"Speak up!" He hadn't eased up on his weapon and he watched Tabitha with the intensity of a rooster eyeing a fox near a henhouse. "Sho nuff I reckon you're in a heap o' trouble, and silence ain't helpin' your case, hear!"

"Huck Finn!"

Agent Thatcher appeared from the dining room, strands of curly brown escaping her usual casually coiffed manner, her features strained from poring over a stack of telegrams that had been delivered early that morning or so Tabitha believed. Her tone was stern and her lips were tight as she addressed the armed man. "Put that piece of metal away right now before I—"

"Oh pipe down Becky," the man grimaced, the gun holstered with a lazy movement. "Ain't like I was 'bout to shoot." He cocked a bare, stubborn chin at Tabitha however, his focus not diverted. "I **would** like to know why this civilian is pawin' her way through government files and papers she ain't got no business in Old Slick's hell pawin' through—" Tabitha sniffed and blinked hard, the realization of what this beautiful stranger was implying about her presence a definite blow to the image of responsibility she was hoping to convey. He thought her a thief or a spy or—or worse! "Are. . .are you cryin'?" Tabitha shook her head to deny it.

"Huck! This is Miss Wen—"

"Are you _cryin'_?"

"N-n-no Sir—"

"She's our new clerk; I hired her on—"

"I can't believe—"

"Tabitha, this is Agent _Huckleberry_ Finn," Rebecca cut forcefully through the man's bewilderment, an ink-stained hand rising to her furrowed forehead though she seemed to take some pleasure in giving the man's full name. "He's a recruiter as well as a field agent—"

"That's classified intel—"

"She's one of us Huck!"

Agent Thatcher and Agent Finn glared daggers at each other until Tabitha put forward a trembling hand, her eyes red-rimmed and full but her mouth was a bright white gash.

"Pleased to meet you Agent Finn."

The man's sky blue eyes met her dark ones, glanced down at her hand with the writer's callous, and snorted. He scratched his back of his head roughly and walked away, heading towards the stairs and cursing under his breath. Rebecca turned to give Tabitha a strained smile, the taller woman taking in a deep breath.

"I apologize for that. He didn't know you were here and ah. . .he has a temper. I'll speak to him about his conduct." Tabitha shook her head, quickly dashing a finger beneath her eyes to halt any fall-away tears.

"He was simply trying to protect the integrity of the Secret Service," she sniffed, "and the United States of America. I'm sure we would have acted the same way." Agent Thatcher opened her mouth, most assuredly to agree with Tabitha's assessment, but the younger woman wasn't looking for easy compliments no matter how she appreciated Rebecca's confidence. "Do you need any help with those telegrams Ma'am?"

"No. No." Agent Thatcher raised a hand and stepped back, shaking her head. "Thank you Tabitha but I have to take care of this myself." She pointed at the open room of misplaced files. "Keep up the good work."

"Always Ma'am," Tabitha perked up. "Thank you Ma'am."

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Dinner at the Suremount was impeccable. So was breakfast and afternoon tea. As far as Tabitha could see (though of course she'd never say) the dining room was the only part of the Secret Service that operated at one hundred percent efficiency. Cook was a constantly frowning elderly Italian woman who had apparently been raised in the Lake Countries of England. Pinched and wrinkled with a severe bun of silver hair and as dark as a berry, Signora seemed happiest yelling foreign profanities at the skinny Irish boy who carted beef and pork in each morning. At least Tabitha assumed they were profanities; it wasn't as if she understood Italian. In any case, Signora was a genius in the kitchen and Tabitha was not missing the painfully quiet meals served in the Nicholson homestead at all.

Even if she ate many of her meals alone. Or while Hu—ah Agent Finn stared her down during his frequent feasts of coffee and eggs. While she could understand his initial distrust, Tabitha was saddened by his dismissive behaviour towards her and could only resolve to be as cheerful and as productive as possible in the hopes of endearing herself to the entire organization. If a person was truly needed it would be much harder—nay, impossible!—to dismiss them out of hand. And Tabitha wanted to be needed. This was to be her life now—or at least until when the Admiral finally called her home again—and unlike with Aunt Julia and the string of female cousins with whom she shared little common ground, Tabitha would strive her hardest to fit in. _Golly, at least everything is my own now! I'm not sick or desperate, and I'm now where near as bad off as_ Jane Eyre_ so I should thank the Good Lord for my blessings._

It was with some small measure of terror then that Tabitha received Agent Thatcher's news of hasty departure.

The woman had been out of sorts for the last fortnight or so, her mood worsening with the lack of information coming into the hotel—information in the form of overseas telegrams as well as regular post. Tabitha had offered her help in whatever fashion several times but the head agent would have none of it, and Tabitha was sure Agent Finn had accused Rebecca of being as jumpy as a scalded cat more than once. He had left on a recruitment mission last Tuesday, his only departing words to the young clerk being _"Try not to burn the place down Tabby."_

Tabby.

It was the first time he had addressed her with anything besides 'Girl.' Tabby. It was. . .sweet. She'd never had a moniker like that before. It reminded her of cats, who were clean and graceful, and the fact that he could now find humour in her accidentally knocking over three of the walls sconces on Sunday was much appreciated. Unfortunately, Tabitha didn't know when Huckleberry was slated to return to Washington and Agent Thatcher could give her no clear details either of her unexpected exodus.

"This is what you signed on for Tabitha," Rebecca walked along the third floor hallway at a brisk pace, mindful of but unwilling to stop for the clerk who was stumbling behind her. "I am perfectly sure of your ability to handle anything this hotel may throw at you."

Tabitha lifted the hem of her lavender dress in an effort to keep up with Agent Thatcher's longer, more confident, strides. She wasn't feeling very sure at all at the moment—and **why** were they going to the roof after sunset? "But when will you be—"

"Two weeks, two months—," Rebecca let some of her irritation enter her voice but took a deep breath before unlocking what would be considered a broom cupboard and ascending the last set of steps towards the roof. As the exit door was unlocked she handed Tabitha a large ring of keys, which was difficult since Tabitha's attention had immediately transferred to the hot air balloon hovering not fifteen steps away, the iron slipping away from her fingers twice before she finally clasped it with both hands. "I don't know when I'll be back," Rebecca had to speak loudly over the hum of gases and flame, dropping her one carpet bag to grip Tabitha's shoulders. "And I don't know when you'll see Huck either. He'll be sending people along, but everything will be perfectly fine. Important things are happening Tabitha," her dark eyes smouldered, "but the Suremount needs to run as normal—Oh!" Tabitha shivered in the wind, her features conflicted as Rebecca pulled an envelope out from under her thick wool coat—something completely unnecessary in August but apparently needed with this alternate form of transportation. The name 'Tom Sawyer' was written on the white paper in Rebecca's elegant hand.

"Do you remember this man?" Tabitha nodded earnestly.

"Yes Ma'am."

Agent Thatcher had shown Tabitha a photograph of the man in question soon after arriving in D.C. Her fondness towards the cheeky, grinning gunslinger with the mop of blond curls had been evident even though Tabitha had felt that Rebecca was trying to corral such emotions at the time. Agent Sawyer was currently on assignment overseas—overdue from what Tabitha had gathered—and he, Huckleberry, and Rebecca had known each other as children raised in the South. Tabitha hadn't been happy with herself over the relief in seeing an attachment between Agents Sawyer and Thatcher. It wasn't very charitable or friendly of her to think so, but it meant that any tension seen between Rebecca and Agent Finn was merely what would be found in any business relationship and not. . .something else.

"It is imperative he get this as soon as possible. I don't know when—"

A rope ladder was thrown down from the balloon's basket and Tabitha spied a glint of metal in the darkness.

"Miss Thatcher! The time, my lady, the time!" A deep, cultured English voice called down and Rebecca shouted back.

"One moment Mister Fogg!" Tabitha was surprised when her superior turned then and firmly embraced her, was pleased to hug Rebecca back. She would never dissuade the woman but Tabitha was suddenly very afraid for Agent Thatcher's safety. She sniffed.

"I'll do my best Ma'am."

Rebecca moved back and gave her one final smile.

"You always do."

Tabitha watched Agent Thatcher climb up the ladder, saw two sets of arms help her over the edge and deposit the brunette inside the basket. She waved as the ladder was rolled up and watched as Agent Thatcher was carried away to only God knew where. There was goose flesh up and down her bare forearms and on her legs underneath her ivory stockings by the time Tabitha re-entered the hotel. She locked all the appropriate doors, made sure all the lights were extinguished for the night, and noted which instruments had been left out by the cleaning girls again.

For the first time in her twenty years Tabitha Wentworth was entirely on her own.

And she hated it.

The next morning Tabitha had Daisy, Gwen, and Sally scrub the Suremount from top to bottom while she attacked the Closet with newfound gusto. For some reason the file on one William Hickok was missing, but wasn't he dead? 'Killer' Miler? Mata Hari? Zorro? Not only were these people—whomever they were—of interest to the Secret Service, but their parents had very poor taste in names.

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_'. . . We certainly do not forget you so soon as you forget us. It is, perhaps, our fate rather than our merit. We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us. You are forced on exertion. You have always a profession, pursuits, business of some sort or other, to take you back into the world immediately, and continual occupation and change soon weaken impressions. . .'_

The small reading glasses were slowly slipping down the bridge of Tabitha's pert nose but the clerk made no move to reposition them higher. She was riveted completely by the fascinating dialogue of Jane Austen, her face barely an inch away from the well read beige sheets and typeface; it was little wonder that _Persuasion_ was one of her favourites. Tabitha liked to fancy that this was how her mother and father had eventually come together, that Dalton Wentworth had returned from sea knowing he could never forget the beauty and goodness that was Olivia Georges. It was sweeter than the reality in any event, of which Tabitha could not be deceived but could sometimes deny if only to herself. Unlike the heroine Anne, Olivia had been but seventeen on her wedding day and had not been the glowing, happiest, mother-to-be. According to family report. Neither the Admiral nor Aunt Julia had much to say on the subject of Tabitha's late mother.

She had locked the closet and it's files away from prying eyes for today; the staff had been run ragged airing out all the rooms, washing linens, and Tabitha had spent all of yesterday cleaning and organizing the dining room herself—bearing Signora's incomprehensible abuse with a cheerful demeanour while stressing that company would want roast—as well as the second floor's Meeting Room, making sure that the side bar was stocked (Papa always said that thinking men preferred a drink in shared company), that the glasses were spotless, and that the cut crystal ash trays were placed a convenient intervals. Tabitha didn't enjoy the pungent, messy scent of cigarettes but those and cigars—which were another matter entirely—would have to be expected.

A very short telegram had arrived from Agent Finn yesterday morning: _'Guests coming. Probably hungry.'_ Tabitha had been on the edge of her seat in anticipation ever since. Guests! Actual guests! Her delicately coloured dusty rose dress was perfectly ironed; her brown laced heels were polished to a high shine; there wasn't much she could do with her hair except pull half of it back with the nicer of the two clips she owned. Tabitha wanted to do well by Agent Thatcher and Agent Finn, secretly hoping the later would come back, see her and the success she had had with staff and hotel alike, and forget his initial estimation of her character as a thieving civilian. Perhaps even congratulate her on a job well done. . .perhaps compliment her on her subtle choice of attire for welcoming his new recruits. . .

But it wasn't Agent Finn who walked through the Suremount's front doors that afternoon as Tabitha was hunched over her popular novel.

It was Annie Oakley.

It was honest to God Annie Oakley.

And Tabitha didn't notice she was even there until the beautiful blond politely cleared her throat and placed her black rancher's hat upon the front desk.

Tabitha dropped _Persuasion_ like a hot coal, blue eyes bugging out of her head but moon-bright smile popping in to place. She may have jumped off her stool but Tabitha Wentworth didn't miss a beat.

"Welcome to the Suremount Hotel Ms Oakley," she spoke with pleasure and clearly, as if she saw international celebrities every day of the week. "May I say how glad we are to have you staying with us." The sharpshooter lifted an eyebrow, her gaze darting to Tabitha's hidden hands before giving the clerk a thorough once over. Tabitha didn't notice.

"Sure. . ."

"A room has already been prepared Ma'am." Tabitha produced a discrete key seemingly out of nowhere and placed it gently on the open register. She had found an old one in the closet, the last name accounted for being a 'Natty Bumpo,' but considering it's worn appearance Tabitha had purchased another with her own wages. "And as soon as you sign in I can bring your bags upstairs."

"No, no," Ms Oakley let out a breath and reached for the ink pen, "there's only one bag an' I can handle that." This wasn't the greeting Annie had expected after her meeting with Finn.

Tabitha's smile slipped slightly but it was back to full beam when the famous woman's head lifted.

"Tea is served in the dining room at half past two and—"

"Actually ah—," Annie replaced her hat. "It was a long train ride and I'd prefer not to be disturbed." She was already headed towards the stairs and Tabitha took a moment to notice the presence of trousers in place of a skirt. "If you could let me know when Huck gets here though that'd be much appreciated."

"Oh." Tabitha blinked. "Oh! Yes! Agent Finn. Yes. Of course Ma'am. . ." But Annie had already reached the landing and was out of sight to Tabitha behind the desk. She swallowed. "I'll let you know when. . .Huckleberry. . .comes home."

The front door slammed shut and Tabitha jumped, her head jerking painfully in the direction of the noise and her shocked gazed landing squarely on a scruffy man in a disheveled tan suit. The coat wasn't buttoned and Tabitha recognized a holster belt around his hips. He carried a doctor's kit in one hand, a large leather satchel bag in the other, and he dropped them both unceremoniously at the desk as he reached for the pen.

"That Annie Oakley?"

Tabitha felt herself pale.

"May I help you Sir?" He finished signing with a vicious flourish and Tabitha expected him to spit on the floor. Soft dirty blond strands fell over a high forehead, obscuring his eyes but were unable to hide his contempt.

"You may tell me where I can find the bar." He tossed the pen back down, already looking around the lobby, moving towards the open dining room. Tabitha snatched a room key off the row, glanced quickly down at the register, and was rushing to keep up, her heels slipping on the scrubbed floor.

"Well ah—ah Doctor!—ah tea isn't served until half past two—"

"I'm not looking for tea," was his sardonic reply. Wooden legs scraped against the floorboards as he pulled out a chair at a table closest to the kitchen doors. "I'll have a whiskey. Bourbon chaser." Tabitha felt her cheeks heat. Signora was gone to church—at least that was to where Agent Thatcher had explained the elderly women regularly disappeared—and what was a _chaser_?

"W-would you like ice with that?" There was a sigh.

"Did I ask for ice?"

When she didn't return with the bourbon his sigh was audibly frustrated and his look wasn't kind.

"What the hell is this?"

"Sir?"

It continued in similar fashion until Doc shot back what the idiot debutante _had_ brought him and pushed out of his chair with another loud screech, slapping a few bills down on the table.

"Hopefully that'll take care of any early morning wake-up calls," he leaned back with a snort and dragged a hand through his hair. Tabitha bit her lip but didn't pick up the money, her hands slowly coming out from behind her back to hand the Doctor his key. Josiah took it, grumbling. "I wanna know when that hustler gets back." Once again Tabitha was following as the man went back to his luggage.

"Sir?"

"Finn Goddamn it!" Doc turned on Tabitha with a hiss, causing the clerk to inhale sharply in shock. He rolled his eyes, lips thinning. "Just—Miss, you just let me know when that bastard walks through those doors, do you understand?" Tabitha's visage was stiff with tension and so was her rapid nod. She didn't move until the Doctor's steps could be heard upstairs. She collected Josiah's 'tip,' lying to herself that she would step out to buy some fresh flowers later when Tabitha knew perfectly well she would be waiting at her desk until Huckleberry Finn showed himself within the Suremount.

The troublesome voice in the back of her conscience was rearing it's ugly head.

When Agent Finn finally returned to the Surmount Hotel in the District of Columbia it was barely five o'clock the next morning and he was not alone.

Tabitha was exhausted having only caught a few hours sleep in the early hours after waiting all day in near solitary confinement. She had opened the doors for a suspicious Signora and then resumed her place behind the front desk. Sally wouldn't be fetching the laundry until eleven so the only suitable garment available was one Tabitha had brought with her from Maryland: a high-necked brown and black construction that only emphasized the dark circles under her drooping eyes, with buttons at the cuffs that had always scratched at her wrists and a waist that pinched as it had been cut to Cousin Diana's measurements. She had heard nothing from Ms Oakley or the Doctor and Tabitha gave a great sigh of relief at the sight of Huckleberry's dark head.

"Hu—Agent Finn!" Tabitha pulled a genuine smile together. "How wonderful to see you again! How—"

"**Not** now Tabby." He looked grim.

His companions didn't appear to be in any finer spirits.

The first was a tall older gentleman with a grizzled salt and pepper beard whose eyes were even older in his thin creased face. His clothes were those of a farmer and shabby but his back was straight; he carried a satchel and what was assuredly a rifle case, and he walked with dignity if not arrogance. His eyes—like Annie's—took in everything. The second was a complete conundrum as Tabitha would have sworn the sallow-faced girl was hardly twenty, nay barely of age to be travelling alone—Perhaps the older man was her father. . .? She had volumes of long untidy hair as black as night and wore an equally black but utterly simple day dress that reminded Tabitha more of a shift than anything to be worn outside of a funeral. She carried no bag and walked with a limp and slight grimace that Tabitha would believed she had imagined in a day or so.

Tabitha plucked up two more room keys and pushed forward the register, opened to a fresh page for a brand new day, her smile no longer reaching her eyes.

"Welcome to the Suremount Hotel," she addressed the older and man and the girl, "and may I say how happy we are to have the pleasure of our company." There was a pause and Agent Finn gave what Tabitha could only be mistaken in thinking was a mean-spirited laugh, his countenance brightening. "Ah. . .Rooms have already been prepared and the dining room is open for your convenience this morning—"

"Alls we wanna do is sleep Tabby."

"Of course Sir," Tabitha nodded, finishing her elucidation. "If you and your ah—guests could just sign here then—"

"Three?"

"Of course Sir," Tabitha's nod was more firm, her expression stuck. "Otherwise how would the staff know—"

"Fine, fine!" his grin was gone and he scrawled his name down with little more than two lines as soon as the gentleman finished his; the girl looked sullenly at the book, Tabitha, and Huck, before finally writing her name down in a gentle slanted script that Tabitha would not have expected from her outward animosity. 'Brigitte Fitzgerald.' The clerk handed over the keys. "Our other guests were asking after you Sir—"

"I ain't seein' anybody now." Huck stated and rubbed at his eyes. The last thing he needed right now was for Becky's exercise in charity to blurt out exactly _who_ those other guests were. "Get the big room ready on the second floor an' have 'em meet there at noon, no earlier." Tabitha watched him look intently at the dark haired girl watched as he smirked. "No roamin' now."

Tabitha felt her heart sink.

There was a cough.

"Miss? Excuse me Miss?"

There was another cough and then a gently touch to Tabitha's shoulder.

She popped up, smiling, blinking, and absolutely terrified. She had fallen asleep, she had fallen asleep, she had fallen asleep—

"Welcome to the Suremount Sir. How may I help you today?"

He was very tall with a kind face complete with friendly, laughing blue eyes and blond curls peeping out from underneath a well worn hat—"Agent. . .Sawyer?" He had a warm chuckle and boyish smile that reminded Tabitha keenly of her cousins now most likely on their respective berths at sea.

"My reputation precedes me! All good I hope."

"I. . .ah yes. Yes! Of course Sir!" Tabitha shook her head, blinking away her fatigue. This was Agent Sawyer! This was—

"Tom is fine, _Miss_. . .?"

"Wentworth—Ah Tabitha Sir—Tom! Tom. My name is Tabitha." She put forward her hand and Agent Sawyer seemed pleased to shake her hand. He wore a long duster and carried what resembled an army kit sack across his strong back; it shifted with a metallic clank. Before she could stop herself the question popped out: "How was England?" He laughed and shook his head.

"Well, let's just say that Europeans have funny ways."

Tabitha nodded, all seriousness.

"I've heard that too Sir."

"Yeeeah. . .So Tabitha, I'm looking for a cantankerous friend of mine. Wouldja point me in the direction of one Huck Finn? Is he here?" Tabitha glanced up at the attractive cuckoo clock she'd had hung behind the desk. Goodness, it was tea time already!

"He and the others had a meeting scheduled for noon—"

"In the big room?"

"On the second floor, yes Sir."

"S'pose I should poke my head in then, see if anybody's still around?" He winked and started for the stairs, stopping abruptly on the first step. "Tabitha, I'll hope you'll pardon me for sayin' so but a pretty little thing like you shouldn't be all trussed up like someone just went six feet under." God, maybe someone had. "Just this poor man's opinion." Another wink and he was gone and Tabitha was grinning so broadly she thought her cheeks may crack. For real this time.

Tabitha took a deep breath, letting it out slowly and forcing the blush out of her cheeks. She felt lifted. Rejuvenated. From a few kind words. And Agent Sawyer was absolutely correct. As soon as business was concluded Tabitha was going to cut this dress into rags along with the others that Aunt Julia had had made—or better yet, see if they could be fitted into something nicer for Daisy and the girls. Things seemed so much better as she signed Agent Sawyer's name onto the register.

And then she remembered Rebecca's letter.

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". . .I wouldn't want you to get hurt and I'm sure Frank wouldn't either. I mean, what does your husband have to say to all this?"

With her elbows and forearms still smarting from her fall up the stairs, Tabitha's eyes became saucers as a tense silence seemed to fill the meeting room she had just stormed into. That grey-haired farmer _did not_ just say what she thought she heard him say! How did he know Mrs Oakley in the first place? And how did he **not** know of her very public divorce?. . .What was his name again? Hickok?

"Excuse me Agent Finn, Agent Sawyer," Tabitha's voice held a slight high-pitch, frantic to ignore the social faux pas the whole room had just been exposed to, not to mention the awkward situation that Mrs. Oakley was now put in. "Ah. . .I'm sorry to interrupt but I have a letter here that Agent Thatcher wrote before she left and I—I think it will explain what she wants everyone to. . .accomplish."

Seeing how Huckleberry was staring at her Tabitha had trailed off, her gaze going from the two confirmed agents to the paper in her hands and back again. The meeting hadn't been finished, in fact **all** the guests were present, and, as she fought to keep her smile evident, Tabitha had a sinking feeing that tea would have to wait.

They hadn't known.

Agent Finn and Agent Sawyer had not known that Agent Thatcher had left. And to England no less! Huckleberry certainly hadn't felt the need to keep Rebecca's notes close to his chest as he explained the gist of her letter, angry (and jealous, Tabitha would have guessed) that the woman had absconded from Washington in a hot air balloon no less.

_"You couldn't have given me this earlier?"_

Tom had seemed equally upset to learn that Rebecca was an agent, something for which Tabitha had no means to explain and felt decidedly uncomfortable conferring over. There was definitely a history between the two.

There had been some argumentative discussion, and then Tabitha had been sent back to her post to await the appearance of one Mister Emmet Collins—a state representative whom Tabitha had heard of at least—but not before she had heard something impossible, something she dared not even breathe.

Someone was going to kill President McKinley.

Tabitha had been a babe when James Abram Garfield was shot while waiting in the Baltimore & Potomac Station there in Washington. Seventeen years in the House of Representatives had earned him a respectable record but four months in the White House found him dying in his sickbed, surrounded by family, in Elberon, New Jersey. From her readings Tabitha knew his assassin was considered a religious fanatic, which never made any sense to her as apparently Charles J. Guiteau was found in the railroad station's ladies room. Also, if someone truly felt their actions were endorsed by the Father (though why people would think God would support the death of any of His Children Tabitha would never know) why hide after the deed was done? Why not stay with your victim and face immediate consequences on a mortal plane if indeed you felt vindicated on a Heavenly one?

Tabitha may not have been the best Christian but she could never imagine being so arrogant.

And now McKinley.

Arthur, Cleveland, and Harrison hadn't amounted to much as far as Aunt Julia had said, but President William McKinley was. . .was popular! As a governor in Ohio he had improved roads and public institutions. He'd cleared up the War last year in no time, had brought freedom to Cuba and increased American acquisitions with Puerto Rico and Guam (wherever they were), and look how well he took care of his poor invalid wife! The United Sates was a world power now thanks to President McKinley! Who would want to kill him?

"Oh. . .uh. . .my name is Emmet. . .Emmet Collins. I am here to talk to uh. . .Miss Thatcher. Is. . .is she in? Today?"

Tabitha was jerked out of her reverie by a weedy looking man with graying brown hair and very pale blue eyes. He looked a little washed out, in both appearance and demeanor; he wore a commonplace suit and his hands were twitching at his sides. It not for the smattering of a beard he possessed, he would have looked very ill indeed.

"Oh! No Sir, I'm sorry Sir," Tabitha shook her head gently. "Agent Thatcher has ah. . .taken an extended leave of absence, but Agent Finn and Sawyer are expecting you upstairs." Mr. Collins seemed to flinch at each 'Agent' and he kept glancing out the large front windows. Tabitha followed his line of sight but didn't see any awaiting carriage or the like. "If you could jus sign here Sir—"

"Are you off your fucking rocker?"

Tabitha reared back as if she'd been slapped, the hissed venom coming fast.

"Sir I—"

"Do you even know who I am?" He leaned into the desk and Tabitha could see those twitchy hands were now shaking white fists. "My name can't be connected to any of this horseshit! Jesus Christ!" Emmet stomped up the stairs, leaving Tabitha sniffling in shock behind the front desk. She stood in silence for a moment, the efforts of the past few days, the energy spent, her failures and faults, swelling internally. With a slow dragging movement Tabitha closed the register, deciding then and there that it would be wiser if she alone filled it out, then turned and unlocked the closet to once again face the mess of files.

It was where she belonged wasn't it?

Out of everybody's way.

"Tabby, c'mere for a moment."

Tabitha's shoulders dropped immediately on a sigh before her mask of forced cheerfulness snapped into place. She'd been caught up in the monotony of open-skim-categorize that her work called for, trying to destroy the evidence of her sadness that had fallen upon her cheeks while organizing papers not only by identity but continent, country, and state (where applicable) as well. This was something she _could_ do well, something at which she _could_ excel, but her rubbed expression wasn't pretty as she moved out to her desk to face Agent Finn and his undoubtedly oncoming abuse.

"Yes Sir?"

Huck watched her for a moment, taking in her blotchy red face and bloodshot eyes, the cracking smile and dark dress he would've pegged on any of the old biddies back home but not on this slip of a girl he'd met several weeks earlier.

"Listen," he began, more gently than Tabitha expected. "The troops are going to be headin' to a party—a uh _Congress_ party—so Annie and Doc are gonna need a little help. Doc needs a suit and Annie might need a dress so could you help them out with that?" Tabitha blinked and felt some of the tension leave her body.

"Yes Sir," she nodded. "Of course Sir."

"Also, I'm gonna be headin' to New Orleans tonight so Tom's in charge till I get back. It'll be a few days. Got all that?" He had only just returned and he was leaving again? So soon? Tabitha swallowed. Hopefully appearances weren't deceiving when it came to Agent Sawyer.

"I understand Sir." He made her repeat it all anyway but that was perfectly fine; Tabitha was feeling better just being useful.

"Swell. I'll see ya around Tabby."

Agent Sawyer was already waiting outside for his childhood friend and Huckleberry was gone before Tabitha could say a word of goodbye, but it wasn't long before Miss Fitzgerald was thumping down the stairs in an uneven gait, her expression bearing a faint resemblance to an unbroken horse back home that had had to be put down.

"Did he leave?"

"Agent Finn? Yes he—oh."

Tabitha watched as Brigitte walked away, a woman on a mission, and promised herself that from now on she would lock any inappropriate thoughts about Huckleberry Finn far far away and never look at them again.

She even believed she could do it.

"I think this style in red would suit Ma'am."

Collecting dress samples from Madame Vera had been a trial akin to Jesus in the desert. The rotund, voluptuous woman with her scurrying horde of sewing girls was loud, demanding, and as curious as a cat. Tabitha wouldn't dare admit she was searching for a dress for _the_ Annie Oakley, and had instead spun a white-lie-tale of needing a formal gown herself. She in her heels and Annie in her boots, both women were practically the same height, and even if Tabitha had to swiftly deny a certain ceremony _her_ slight embarrassment was loads better than what poor Mrs. Oakley would have to endure under the scrutiny of Madame Vera.

"Annie. And no red."

The understated blond woman was seated hunched over at the foot of her bed, glancing up at the dresses Tabitha presented with little more than fear and abhorrence. She was not at all what the young clerk expected of a world famous, gun-toting, circus performing divorcee. She had been shy and evasive at the first mention of gowns and frippery—not the attention seeking cowgirl Tabitha would have been just as happy to take care of—and now looked simply resigned, sitting there in trousers and man's shirt, her luminous hair in a low ponytail. "That one's fine Tabitha," she sighed, pointing at the third option. "Just. . .see if they can. . .uh. . .raise the neckline. And long sleeves. I ain't gonna look like some dancing girl." This was the first hard word Tabitha had heard from the woman but she couldn't miss the red appearing in the blonds cheeks.

Tabitha made an assumption and expressed it in her own subtle way.

"Oh no Ma'am!" she smoothed a hand down the skirt of the rather plain sample dress, shaking her head to disagree. "Agent Finn said you were going to a government party and only old ladies and _widows_ would wear sleeves to one of those!" She gave Annie a look of honest female appraisal. "And if you don't mind me saying so Ma'am, you aren't either of those."

She thought she heard Annie snort but it must have been the bed creaking. "I do understand your concerns though," she nodded earnestly. "Madame Vera has more daring than most b-but I swear Ma'am, **I swear** your dress will be completely respectable." Tabitha toyed with the edge of the skirt. "Do you like green?"

"How 'bout blue?"

"Lavender!"

"Green's fine."

Tabitha nodded and began the process of folding the fabrics back into their large 'MV' embossed boxes. Mrs. Oakley stood, stretched, and moved over to the small generic vanity that occupied a place in each of the Suremount's bedrooms. She fiddled with the brush, adjusted the porcelain wash basin, counted off her own collection of nondescript hair pins.

". . .So how'd you get involved with this?" Tabitha continued her work with the dresses.

"What do you mean Ma'am?"

There was a heavy sigh and Mrs. Oakley continued to face the vanity.

"You don't gotta say anything Tabitha, I mean we all have our secrets—" she stopped abruptly and gave a soft bitter laugh. "Presumably. I was just wonderin' how Huck convinced you to join up here." Another sigh. "You're awful young to be hip deep in all this trouble."

"I'm twenty, Ma'am." The response was automatic but Tabitha's hands paused and she looked over at the older woman. "I. . .I don't understand. My father found me this position Ma'am. I admit it's not really what I expected," she laughed nervously, her smile straining as she continued though so far she had felt at ease in Mrs. Oakley's company, "but at least I—I get to meet so many new people. . .and I'm not living with my Aunt anymore." Annie nodded but said nothing for so long that Tabitha believed their discussion finished and began to stack the boxes, but then the blond woman turned and her question was no longer tentative.

"D'ya even know what's goin' on here Tabitha?"

The clerk swallowed, her response hushed.

"Are you _sure_ then that the President's life is in danger?"

"Your Agent Thatcher sounded pretty sure. Sawyer and Finn trust her word."

"I do too," Tabitha's gaze was guileless. "And I know that you and Miss Fitzgerald and ah the Doctor and Mister. . .Hickok, is it? I know you'll do your best for the American people." Annie wasn't going to be swayed, an angry flush appearing on her flawless cheeks. It wasn't this girl whom she was angry with though.

"We're not heroes Tabitha! I ain't, Bill certainly—" she clenched her teeth, her fingers digging in to the edges of the vanity behind her. "_Doc_ ain't a doctor and—God, I don't know what the hell Brigitte is doing here. Canadian? What the hell did Finn mean by that?"

"They. . .they're kinda close don't you think?"

Annie was stunned.

"That's one way of puttin' it."

Tabitha nodded, then picked up her load; in a very nice gesture of civility Annie moved quickly to open the door for her.

"Thank you Ma'am. If you need anything, or know of any way I can be of help, please let me know."

"Actually ah. . .Finn mentioned somethin' about files?" Tabitha's face brightened.

"Oh yes Ma'am! Any identifying information you may need for your investigation, I can find it!" Annie opened her mouth but stopped, as if she had just then reconsidered her request.

"Do you think there might be any information 'round about a governor by the name of Wilcott? Jonas Wilcott? Or a 'Charles Gossett'?" Tabitha almost dropped the boxes but Annie laid on a steadying hand.

"Why yes Ma'am! I remember seeing some papers about Mister Gossett today. Should I bring them to you?"

"I—Don'cha think it'd be better bringin' that sort of thing to Sawyer or Finn? They're runnin' this operation aren't they?" Tabitha nodded, thanking Annie for her foresight. The last thing the clerk wanted was for Huckleberry to accuse her of withholding what could be vital information. She would bring Agent Sawyer anything she came across.

"Of course Ma'am. Thank you Ma'am."

As she left Mrs. Oakley's bedroom a door on the other side of the hall opened and Doctor Scurlock stepped out.

"Hello Doctor!" Tabitha chirped. "I'll bring your suit as soon as possible." She continued walking, going very slowly down the hotel stairs.

". . .What suit?"

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Now that Tabitha knew the purpose behind the multitude of files and personal information stored within the Suremount Hotel she was able to devote an admirable amount of time to actual study rather than simple organization—not that anything connected to the mess was simple—in the hopes of finding something else that would be of use to Agent Sawyer and his guests. Tom had been very happy with the files on Charles Gossett and Jonas Wilcott, and Tabitha had hoped the incarceration of these men would be quick therefore calling a halt to any such scheme on President McKinley's life.

Doctor Scurlock had crushed such a notion quickly, informing Tabitha that _'no Goddamn governor would give up that much power just cause some sorry crew of arrogant nobodies called him on his nepotism.'_ It was a word Tabitha had had to discreetly look up but it led her to the sad realization that corruption had indeed wormed its way through the hallowed halls of Washington. And it was Governor Wilcott's social that Mrs. Oakley and the others were planning to attend. Senator Gossett was sure to be there as well. . .perhaps it could all be taken care of over a nice drink and lovely music? She refrained from voicing that particular thought though.

This sort of reading was unpleasant. Sometimes Tabitha would find herself biting her clenched fist to stop from gasping and crying out at the atrocities various men _and women_ had committed. It felt awful that there she was, safe and sound in her white and pink and rose and purple dresses while so many others had been hurt and—and brutalized by so few. The things men like Senator Gossett and a Mister Edward Hyde and various others were accused of perpetrating on humanity in general and women specifically were nauseating; she was getting better at hiding her tears, or at least Tabitha thought she was getting better. After consecutive days of such readings however, nightmares would pop up, and the clerk had not had to deal with nightmares in many years, not since her menses had begun and Cousin Deborah had mysteriously found it an occasion for smug satisfaction. Tabitha missed her romances and gentle pastoral fantasies, and could often be seen with book in hand in the dining room, after evening meal had finished being served but before the girls had started cleaning, catching what chapters and kind phrases she could. It wasn't as if she _wanted_ to be seen like that though, engrossed in something that wasn't her work. Aunt Julia would have been scandalized and Tabitha didn't need another reason for her superiors to question her judgement.

"Tabitha? Pardon my French, but where the hell is Huck?"

Tabitha clamped down on a giggle as she looked up into Agent Sawyer's open, friendly face. She hadn't wavered from her first impression of his jovial manner, that he reminded her of her cousins only making Tabitha think better of him than was maybe warranted, that Agent Thatcher thought fondly of him seemed like an affirmation of her opinion of his good nature: he was a good man and Huckle—Agent Finn was incredibly lucky to have Tom Sawyer as a friend.

Tabitha flipped though her register, a register that she'd been keeping as up to date as possible entirely based on her own observations, but sure enough Agent Finn's name hadn't been repeated.

"I thought he was upstairs, Sir. Doctor Scurlock was yelling at someone earlier and I assumed Agent Finn had caught the late train last night."

Tom laughed, shaking his head and running a hand through his mop of hair. Tabitha opened her mouth to join in on the apparent joke but swallowed it back with a cough when she saw that the Agent wasn't completely happy.

"Yeeeahhh, I think Doc was cussin' at himself an' that monkey suit we're makin' him wear."

"I'm sorry if he—"

"There's nuthin' wrong with the suit Tabitha." Tom sighed and leaned over, resting his elbows on the front desk, the muscles of his forearms stretching above the perpetually rolled cuffs of his white shirt. He wouldn't be able to do that tomorrow night, Tabitha mused. "Did he say anything to you 'bout where he was headed? I mean, first we were down at the harbour and then he takes off with Brigitte to God knows where. . ."

Tabitha repressed the cold lump in her throat at the thought of Huckleberry and Miss Fitzgerald together anywhere and gave Agent Sawyer a bright smile.

"I'm sure he'll be back from Louisiana soon Sir."

"Louiswhat?"

He watched her with his warm blue eyes, his boyish charm now focused with confusion and an edge of a temper that surprised the clerk and showed a speculative personality in the kind Agent that hadn't been seen before.

"But. . .you were just outside Sir," she gestured weakly towards the door, her smile very slowly fading. "After that first meeting. He—He told me he was going to New Orleans, I thought you knew."

"What the hell is he doin' in New Orleans?"

There was only one answer and it fell in shaky chirpiness from Tabitha's pink lips.

"Getting married?"

Tom's mouth dropped open as heavy footsteps on the landing brought them both out of their mutual shock. It was the tall farmer, Mister Hickok. For some reason Tabitha had been unable to find any files on Agent Finn's guests.

"Who's gettin' married?"

"Your daughter and Agent Finn."

The man's steely gaze could have pierced her soul and Tabitha had to quickly drop eye contact. Agent Sawyer spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

"Brigitte **ain't** his daughter."

There was a contented smile on Tabitha's face as she delicately set Mrs. Oakley's blond locks, combing her fingers through the heavy tresses that she'd meticulously brushed earlier, twisting the heavy mass into a pleasing arrangement that hopefully reflected both Annie's _ah_ status, as well as her personal tastes. They'd spent a lot of time—too much time—discussing what Annie didn't want to resemble; while the bell shape style of her gown wasn't entirely up to date, more Southern Belle than Yankee, but Tabitha knew it looked beautiful and Annie wouldn't be shamed. Annie was rolling her eyes again and Tabitha took it upon herself to place a comforting hand on her bare shoulder, milky fresh with a smattering of freckles. In the shining emerald green taffeta Mrs. Oakley would be the center of attention whether she wanted it or not (which the woman unquestionably didn't) leaving Agent Sawyer and the Doctor ample time to investigate whatever it was they were hoping to find inside Governor Wilcott's D.C. manor.

Yes. Agent Sawyer.

He and Mr. Hickok hadn't been pleased, in fact they'd been downright angry at Agent Finn's disappearance—for different reasons Tabitha gathered, as she tried to busy herself behind the front desk: Tom couldn't believe Huckleberry would leave without him especially after just returning from England, and Mr. Hickok couldn't believe the other agent would want to go anywhere alone with Miss Fitzgerald.

_"Who is she?" Tom asked, confounded. "Where'd Huck find her and why the hell'd he bring her here?" Mr. Hickok's voice was a gravely mess and he sighed deeply._

_"Let's just say she was causin' trouble with my sheep an' we thought it best she tag along."_

_Tom began to protest but a sharp hail from the stairs quieted them both._

_"I don't think any o' that matters now," Annie gazed down at the two men heatedly, an expression, Tabitha had noticed, that became more pronounced whenever the woman was in Mr. Hickok's presence. "We stick to the plan and get this horseshit over with! Sawyer, go get dressed, and _Bill_," she drawled the moniker with much disdain, "see if ya can't find that runt bastard 'fore he drags s'more suckers into this mess. Sorry there's no room for the livin' dead at this party." There was a high flush to Mrs. Oakley's cheeks as she stomped back to the floor above and Tabitha—in her own kind of numbed shock at the woman's outburst—was sure she heard a pained grunt come from Mr. Hickok, but then Tom coughed, pushed a thumb beneath a suspender and clapped the older man on his shoulder._

_"In my experience it's best to just let 'em—"_

_"__**What**__ experience, boy?"_

"I feel like a show horse."

Tabitha finished pinning a final curl then reached for the pot of colour on the vanity.

"You won't need much Ma'am."

There was no response beyond a huff; Annie closed her eyes and stuck out her chin, letting the girl have at it with the cosmetics. Tabitha dabbed on the soft rose tint gently, watching Mrs. Oakley's natural beauty turn into a glow. The carriage would arrive shortly to carry this woman and her two petulant escorts off to the party, an event that Tabitha had had to tell herself more than once that she had no business pining over, an event where she wouldn't have known a soul let alone how to talk to them. . .an event that would have hosted so many beautiful interesting people—

"Why are you so upset with Mr. Hickok, Ma'am?"

Mrs. Oakley turned her head so fast, her expression so vicious, that Tabitha had to rear back for fear of smearing a pink line over the woman's chin. She'd overstepped herself. "Never mind Ma'am," she murmured. "I shouldn't have asked that." She stuffed the rouge into her pocket and rushed to fetch Annie's matching green slippers. "If you'll just let me—"

"What do you know about Bill, Tabitha?" The words were hard and punctuated and dripped with the proof of Annie's Southern roots. Mrs. Oakley's hands clenched and like a regal vision her chin tipped back, like a disapproving Mrs. Reeves or a wisely speculating Lady Ross, but it didn't stop Tabitha from glancing at the pair of pistols hanging on the foot of the bed. Why was Annie watching her like **that**. . .as if she were waiting for Tabitha to suddenly speak a new language or—or become another person?

"Nothing Ma'am." Tabitha sent out a quick wish that Agent Sawyer would come knocking before accidentally biting her lip and releasing it with a pained gasp. "Ma'am—Ma'am I never would have asked if I'd thought you'd be so mad!" Oh. That really wasn't the correct thing to say either. "I mean I have no business asking anything of you—"

"Wait—"

"You're a guest here at the Hotel—"

"Wait a minute—"

"And my Aunt always said I asked too many question—"

"Jesus, Mary, an' Joseph, Tabitha! Will ya give it a rest? I mean, Lord—"

"Oh don't jostle yourself Ma'am!" Tabitha jumped forward to place a gentle hand against Annie's curls, her faux pas and the subsequent profanity momentarily forgotten in her effort to keep Mrs. Oakley presentable. She pressed the slippers into the other woman's hands. "Let me get another pin while you put those on Ma'am." There was a huff coupled with what _just couldn't_ be a growl.

"I don't **need** another pin."

". . .Perhaps I should check on Doctor Scurlock?"

"You do that."

It was early—No. Late. It was very, very late, and, while she didn't approve of it, Tabitha could forgive herself for the great yawns hidden behind her hands and her head that kept nodding forward, looking for a pillow and a bed. She had been having such a wonderful dream too! Of open pastures and glorious orange-mauve sunsets and. . .and a warm hand around her own as she waited for evening to descend upon her home. _Their_ home. Whomever he was.

Quickly taking a large sip of the horrid coffee she had scraped together from the cold kitchen, Tabitha purposefully kept her eyes wide and beamed at the elegant lady seated at the other end of the dining room table who was currently being questioned intently by three very irate hotel patrons. The Doctor, Agent Sawyer, and Mrs. Oakley—all ruffled and frustrated to various extents, and really who could blame them leaving a party untimely as they had—surrounded the willowy, almost delicate, Miss Susanna Owens as if she were a mare waiting to bolt. Doc, arms folded and tie undone, leaned against the wall behind the strange new blond, for all intents and purposes completely sober and—Tabitha couldn't be quite sure—casting covert glances at Annie while the older woman and Tom took on the roles of main inquisitors. Mrs. Oakley's cheeks were flushed, several curls astray, and Tom's coat was hanging haphazardly over the back of his chair, shirt sleeves once again rolled up. Truthfully, the four of them seemed to have taken a note from Cinderella and escaped the ball like time itself was their enemy.

Despite the fact that her fashionable lace cape was now tucked tightly around her neck, and despite the fact that her countenance was currently more than a little indifferent, Miss Susanna Owens was uncommonly beautiful. Her white-blond hair was pulled back into an artful bun, slick and perfect and held with crystal pins that caught the light like stars; her clear complexion was touched with only a hint of aggravated flush—most assuredly from the lateness of the hour—and her pale blue gown simply emphasized her ethereal nature. Tabitha had expected to hear a soft French accent, demure and willing to please.

She could not have been more wrong.

Miss Owens was American—Californian to be exact—and not at all pleased to be the subject of scrutiny in that she answered little and actually sighed in Tom's face, rolling her eyes several times and repeating such things as "It's all going to end horribly," and "You wouldn't believe me anyway."

"Now, I was told you know everything Miss Owens." While her posture was a little too relaxed for her apparel, Annie wasn't smiling. "You yerself had a few hair-raisers for me earlier this evening."

"Oh!" Tabitha sat up straight, no need to force interest now. "Oh my gosh! Oh golly!"

"What is it Tab—"

"You—You're Miss Owens!"

"Is she always this sl—"

"You're the Spiritualist!"

Susanna glanced down at her clasped hands then lifted her long neck with a sigh.

"And now one of my brother's predictions has come to pass. I am in hell."

Tabitha laid the decorative tea cup and saucer down on the vanity and offered Miss Owens a supportive smile when the other woman didn't automatically reach for it. Oh this was wonderful! This was almost up there with meeting Mrs. Oakley! Tabitha gave herself a scolding: how could it have taken her so long to recognize the renowned seer? No, Susanna wasn't _world_ famous, but she had a circle of faithful and persons who followed such things. And Tabitha did indeed follow such things. Well . . . she tried to. Palmist, seer, and golly the woman could reputedly even talk to the dead!

The woman in question was sitting rigidly on the edge of the hotel room bed, decidedly _not_ touching the fresh night rail Tabitha had supplied for her use. She had unclipped her cape after the clerk had led her to her new sleeping arrangements, revealing to Tabitha the marks she had spoken so easily of to the others downstairs. Tabitha hadn't been able to hide her shock, and her sympathetic comments had been dismissed. An attempt had been made on Miss Owens' life this evening, the red lines around her throat apparently made by a man with very large hands—the seer hadn't actually **seen** her attacker but was able to relate a few facts—and would most assuredly blossom into a necklace of browns and purples by morning.

Tabitha bit her lip and blurted out,

"Forgive me Ma'am, but are there any ghosts here? Do you see any?"

Susanna regarded Tabitha with a pinched, nasty smile and spoke as if through clenched teeth.

"You'll understand if I choose not to talk about such things now. I'm tired and would like to be alone."

"Oh. Oh of course! Of course!" Tabitha bobbed her head, ashamed at herself for keeping a lady up so late and _especially_ after such unforgivable circumstances. She was almost at the door when she whirled around again. "This isn't a kidnapping. Truly, Ma'am, you must believe me. Agent Sawyer and the others just want to keep you safe."

They had argued for an hour before Mrs. Oakley suggested sleep as the most welcome alternative. The Governor Wilcott and Senator Gossett's names had featured heavily but Miss Owens was less than forthcoming. There had been some sort of meeting during the party and that was all the woman was willing to say. For some reason the Doctor had offered to 'take first watch' but Tom had thought that unnecessary, nodding at the large loop of Tabitha's keys. Keys that Tabitha brought with her everywhere, even in the middle of the night.

"That's **very** comforting."

Tabitha smiled brightly in acknowledgement, adjusted her old woolen wrapper, and left Miss Owens to her own devices. Things would be better tomorrow, the sun would encourage positive ideas, and everything would seem much clearer.

Perhaps Tabitha would even ask to have her hand read!

Doctor Scurlock approached Tabitha with a frightening expression that even his neatly trimmed beard couldn't conceal. Her only recourse was to beam back at him and lean ever slightly towards Mrs. Oakley. Not that Annie was any happier. They were all very tired.

"What d'ya _mean_ you didn't lock the door?"

"Miss Owens is a _lady_, Doctor."

"I think I'm gonna be—"

"Tabitha," Tom cut in, fighting between the urge to laugh and kick a door in, "did she say anything to you last night? You were the last one to see her so anything could be important."

Tabitha reached into the pocket of her peach day dress and triumphantly handed a single folded sheet of paper to Agent Sawyer.

"No, but I did find this in her room when I went to bring her breakfast." Nevermind that it had taken her this long to see it's importance. Annie coughed and looked at Tabitha with surprise.

"Is that a bluff, or do you mean it for real play?" Understandably, Tabitha was confused. "You were actually goin' to give that odd stick breakfast in bed?"

". . . She had been hurt Ma'am."

Tom took a deep breath over the paper he and Doc were reading before passing it over for Mrs. Oakley's perusal. Doc moved over to the decanters, a series of oaths rolling from his lips.

"I am going to **kill** that Huck Finn."

"I think I'll help."

"What is it?" Tabitha asked, looking from one individual to another. She couldn't believe that Huckleberry had anything to do with Miss Owens.

"Oh nothing," Tom rubbed his eyes. "Just a bomb on a train. Somewhere."

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She had her arms out to embrace him before she even realized it, her legs moving forward in a billow of bright rose skirting, down over the stairs and into the lobby at the sound of his tired salutation to Agent Sawyer. Dear Lord, what was she doing? It didn't matter about the witnesses however; Tabitha's two left feet took care of thoughts of etiquette as she tripped the last few steps into Agent Finn's far from welcoming arms, hands squeezing his shoulders tight, breathing in the scent of his rumpled figure. But it wasn't the clean musk of sweat, of a hard days work, that soaked his shirt and overcoat. Tabitha was hit with a heavy plume of tobacco smoke which in itself wouldn't have been so bad except that there was an overlay of something sharp, of moonshine and whiskey. . .and the sickening sweet hint of a tavern woman's perfume.

Tabitha released him, fists snapping to her hips as her cheeks tuned an ugly red.

"Where have you _been_ Huckleberry Finn?" Annie and the Doctor were somewhere behind her and Mr. Hickok was standing just inside the doorjamb, hat low over his eyes and a grim set to his thin lips. Tom stood nearby trying to interject but it was too late for Tabitha's mouth, neither of them ever had a chance. "You gather these good people," she made a sweeping gesture, "and then disappear for two whole weeks with no word about intent or when we should expect your return! And then you simply parade in after dinner's been served smelling of all manner of unlawful dealings," Oh Lord she hoped she hadn't just spat, "not at all the gentleman we thought you were—"

**"Who the fuck do you think you are?"**

She was struck with the weight of his wide angry stare, so much so that the profanity almost slipped by until her eyes began to sting; Tabitha involuntarily backed herself into Agent Sawyer whose fingers curled firmly around her shoulder in an attempt to move her aside. Annie was stepping forward.

"Now Huck that's—"

"Who do you think you are?"

It was stated low, hard and controlled, and infinitely scarier than his outraged roar. Huck's gaze was locked and Tabitha was the target. "You're _nuthin'_ here, understand. You don't get to question anyone's motivations, no one in this organization, _'specially me._" A clicking sound came from Tabitha's throat; she could feel herself shaking and couldn't stop, and with a loud snorting breath Agent Finn swung around towards the exit once again. "Keep your Goddamn hands to yesself."

_Dear David,_

_Oh Cousin! I apologize profusely for not sending word before now but you can hardly blame me for becoming so appropriately situated as I am. Washington is a bustling grand town and I am very busy with important matters—Well I won't go on so about that! I am sure my Aunt has imparted to you the position of work the Admiral found for me so no-more of that. Not hat I could tell you particulars even if I wished—which I do David, I do, it has always been so easy speaking with you, but as you can surely guess government work does lead to more closed lips than a game of hide & seek! I will leave the matter by saying that I am extremely well situated and that father could not have found a better position for me to earn my place in this World. Have no worries for me!_

_Are you well? I hope everything is well. I have heard nothing of your travels from Australia, if anything there is to be told, nor of the boys and their adventures in the Indies. Yes, the Indies—just in passing…has Papa sent a message to Aunt Julia? Has he reached the Islands safely or do you know if his ships have encountered any troubles? Do you think perhaps he may return earlier than expected? Please, Do Not trouble my dear Aunt with these enquiries but if you yourself knew then I would dearly love to hear a line or two in answer. I understand how busy everyone in the family is especially this time of year. I imagine the fields are tired of being beat with so many hooves! Oh forgive my fancy, David, I know you won't mind a few of my wild imaginings. If you wouldn't mind me saying, I do in fact miss the horses in my quiet hours—not that there are many of course, but I always did terribly enjoy riding with you and the others._

_Oh my, you will think me silly indeed! I will end here ten and again hope that this letter reaches you with all health and happiness._

_Your silly little cousin,  
>Tabitha Wentworth<em>

Her expression was a grotesque mockery of what an inviting smile should be and Tabitha felt it, saw it when she awoke in the morning and whilst she cleaned up at night, and it was terrible that she had to play so false in front of the guests. The only balm was her belief that Annie and Tom and the others didn't see how deep her unhappiness ran—though there were instances where flashes of pity were shot her way (intolerable and so embarrassing!) but she was trying! She was trying so hard! Undoubtedly, she deserved every bit of Agent Finn's censure, the violence of his words made absolute sense and _were_ completely true and she hadn't been crushed by—

"Welcome to the Suremount, Sir, how may I help you today?"

The greeting sounded like a rushed excited sob and the suited gentleman with the bowler hat gave her an odd look as she smiled widely, not a tear to be seen. He was long-limbed with drawn cheeks underneath hair so dark it was almost black and a freshly trimmed goatee. His eyes were dark as well, intense and older than his actual years. He seemed to brush off Tabitha's strained welcome and quirked his lips.

"Frederick Abberline, Miss," his accent was foreign, some sort of unpolished English dialect or tone of lesser orders. "Formerly of Scotland Yard. I was told to meet—"

"So here you are!" Tom's bright voice jumped along with him down the stairs and through the lobby as he moved to shake Mr. Abberline's hand. His face was rosy and he had probably just finished washing up for dinner—Tom had very good manners, Tabitha had noticed. "No trouble on the way over Detective?"

"None worth quibbling over," the man grinned congenially enough. "Agent Thomas Sawyer I presume?"

"Tom. Please." Agent Sawyer chuckled good naturedly but as he paused Tabitha sensed he was waiting for the Detective to give him something, fingers tapping on his suspenders as if his hands needed to be filled. Finally he cleared his throat. "And how's England without me?" Frederick tilted his head forward, lips upturned.

"I was led to believe it was England's turn to help America out of it's own mess this time around. . .or was our informer wrong?" It was easy to see that Tom didn't like that deduction at all, even before his fingers stopped their little dance.

"Let's getcha something to eat Fred, and then I'll fill y'all in on how _England_ can help us."

"Oh Agent Sawyer!" Tabitha piped up, not wishing to interrupt but needing clarification. She wasn't about to make another mistake so soon after her last one—not that Tabitha thought she would ever release a potential suspect again now that she had been informed about that protocol and the gravity of her error, but it wouldn't hurt to be particular. "Mr. Hickok asked me to check our files for anything referencing. . .ah, _'vampires'_." She had been thrown for a loop by the request, especially coming from the gravel-voiced farmer so soon from his trip to New Orleans, but had agreed to look into the matter if only to remove herself from his penetrating stares.

"Vamp—Vampires?"

"Is that alright?"

If she was going to follow through with the older man's delusions her superior's needed to know. Both men shared a glance though Detective Abberline seemed more amused than Tom who licked his lips and muttered something unintelligible before nodding in a large gesture.

"Sure Tabitha, sure! Whatever Bill wants, you go ahead and find it. Just—" and here his voice softened. "Just don't work yourself too hard, ya hear."

"Of course not Sir," Tabitha beamed. Tom sighed and nodded, pointing the Detective towards the dining room.

"No vampires, eh?" she heard Mr. Abberline quip as they moved away. "What sort of interesting characters _do_ you Americans have?"

Tabitha shook her head, picked up a tissue to discreetly blow her nose, and proceeded to update her register.

Her fingers dropped with a start from the knob of her bedroom door, her body going utterly stiff at the lounging figure waiting against the other side of the hall. There was no other way to describe it: with barely three feet of space to hold the width of the hallway Huckleberry could be doing nothing else but waiting for her to emerge from her room. While his stance may have been easy and unforced—in complete opposition to Tabitha's own which was currently like a broom handle in the severest of grips—his mouth and jaw line were tense and his eyes were clear telescopes focused on her face. . .until they enigmatically dropped to the floor, as if he had held on for as long as he could and now could no longer meet _her_ confused gaze.

They had been silent for too long in such close quarters and Tabitha readied herself for an accounting of all she had failed to do today. It was only six o'clock. He had lots of time.

"Agent Finn, may I help you with—"

"I mayhap said some things I ain't proud of."

Tabitha barely refrained from falling over her perfectly level feet, almost had her jaw drop but definitely felt her insides loosen, the knot of the last few days preparing to untie. Was this an apology? She held her breath momentarily and waited for. . .well waited in truth for the man to add a codicil or amendment to his statement, that though he wasn't proud of what he had said but it had been **true** nonetheless, or that he wasn't proud of **everything** but that most of it was alright. In the awkward pause she finally noticed with not a little surprise that he wore a brushed suit and a tie of dubious origin, and that most likely his boots had been spit shined. Tabitha really had no idea how to respond. _I'm not happy with what I said either. I was worried about you. I didn't know where you were and no one else did either and you could have died. I don't really think you smell like cheap drink and harlot houses. I want you to be safe. I'm not a scold. I know my place here and I'll try to do better. I don't want to keep my hands to-_

"I was just going to post a letter to my cousin," she held up the small square of an envelope in rigid fingers then grasped at the heavy shawl that was quickly sliding off her shoulders and unprepared when Agent Finn reached out and plucked it from her hand.

"Reckon I can run that down for you while you go get gussied up."

"W-What?" Huckleberry nodded. He was reading the address now and didn't look up.

"Box social down with the Sally Ann an' I want you to come with me."

Tabitha made a sound something like a gurgle and a drowning cat and Huck looked up, his eyes warming fractionally as the corner of his mouth stirred. "A dance, Tabby. Some religious folks is havin' a dance an' I'm askin' you to go. For business purposes o' course."

Tabitha's blue eyes darted up and down the hallway then suddenly stopped on Huck. She bit her lip. "I'll need some time—"

"Y'got twenty minutes."

"I'll be ready in ten."

"Figured."

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"I thought these people didn't like to dance."

Tabitha felt like a princess. She may as well have been walking down a shining promenade in a fur muff and glass slippers; as it was, her little heels clicking on the street, white felt shawl and vibrant salmon dress were just as good. She could have been walking on air. The mousy brunette couldn't stop the smile plastered on her previously distraught visage from curling in genuine excitement as she glanced furtively at her Prince Charming—err—Agent Finn. There was no time to be upset, there was no real need to anymore. Tabitha was not a vindictive creature and frankly the violence needed to be such made her stomach twist and her head hurt. Huckleberry had invited her to a social and what could be a better apology than that?

"They ain't monks."

"No, of course not, of course not. That's something completely different." Not that Tabitha had any personal experience with monks but she was almost positive one of her novels had mentioned them. Possibly Irish, so Huckleberry would know better than she what they were and were not. "But they're not exactly regular church-going Christians," the clerk continued without any rancour or prejudice. "They have their own beliefs and-and. . ." what was the word? "Dogs—"

"They **ain't** game keepers neither Tabby," Huck grumbled, then suddenly seemed to smirk. "Brigitte'd probably know 'bout that." Tabitha's eyebrows jumped into her hairline and she bit her lip. _But he came back without her. . .And there's no ring on his finger._ A swift blush bloomed and Tabitha busied her hands adjusting the starched cream ribbon of her bonnet. She had no right or reason to be thinking those kind of mercenary thoughts! Serialized stories were all well and good but Aunt Julia would be utterly scandalized! Tabitha quickly forced a small laugh.

"Yes! We thought you both had run off together."

"What?" Huck guffawed, coughing a little. Probably a fly. He slapped his well-worn hat against his equally attired trousers in a gesture Tabitha had seen many a cowboy complete, and a large grin blossomed on his baby-smooth face. He'd shaved and Tabitha fancied for a moment he had done it for her. "What damn fool thought that up?" Her heart dropped but the smile remained glued in place, the answer rapidly flying off her lips in a near squeak.

"The Doctor!"

"Doc?" The Agent hooted again, drawing the attention of a few passers-by whom Tabitha, still smiling widely, raised a hand towards. They scurried away quickly. Most likely they were late for some sort of important appointment. "Here I thought that coffee boiler wouldn't know a joke if'n one bit 'im on the ass!" Another blush lightly touched the clerk's cheeks for Huckleberry's language but she supposed men like him, who were so busy and placed in dangerous situations, should have some outlet. Though she never would have agreed that the Doctor liked coffee. Whiskey yes. . .Tabitha shook her head and shortened her stride. _"Gentlemen like ballet dancers Tabitha dear," her cousin Diana had once stated in confidence. "Not girls who trot like Westminster ponies."_

"What _did_ you do in—"

"That's classified and you know it," Agent Fin spoke through his teeth, all appearance of humour vanished. Tabitha looked away and quickly admonished herself. They were out in the open for goodness sake, not the perfectly safe walls of the Suremount! She heard Huckleberry clear his throat. "'Sides Tabby. . .it's a party. We're gonna have a real hog-killin' time." Tabitha's eyes betrayed everything as they widened in absolute shock, which made her look particularly pained when coupled with her unhappy smile.

"But not really!"

Huck sighed.

"No Tabby, not really."

The building they entered was clean and neat and not at all in a section of town Tabitha would have expected a respectable social to take place—but that was fine, it was all an experience and with Agent Finn by her side the clerk had no reason to fear, so he didn't, and entered in high humour. These were religious people and surely everyone just wished to have a very fine time. She nodded and smiled at a pretty girl who had dipped her head courteously while passing by, arm in arm with her own beau. Tabitha had hotly debated with herself over taking Huckleberry's arm—he _had_ invited her, they were walking together in the evening—but as the Agent had never offered the thought was moot and the act was ridiculous. Imagine, just reaching out and linking her arm with Agent Huckleberry Finn's!

"What kinda spread they got here now."

Tabitha followed after Huckleberry with a little shrug, trying not to bite her lip.

Off to one side of the large open space couples were dancing to the lively strains of three fiddles and a tambourine-_Like Gypsies!_ Tabitha's face brightened. Wouldn't it be wonderful to meet a real Gypsy?—while others stood around and clapped or simply watched. Huckleberry wasn't leading her there though. Near the back was a long line of tables clothed in flowery sheets and covered with cold meats and pies and every good thing one could think of. How generous! Tabitha impulsively picked a cup and reached for the large bowl of punch, pouring herself a half portion. She felt as if she were present at a barn dance and Aunt Julia had _never_ allowed her such activity.

"Hold up." Tabitha watched, confused, as Huck took the cup from her hands and swallowed it whole. To stop her jaw from hanging slack she spoke.

"I would have poured you one too if you—"

"Huh." He shook his head and handed her back the cup. "It really is punch. Wonders never cease." He cocked his bare chin back at the bowl. "Have as much as ya want Tabby, it won't kill you." What was he implying? She was positive these people didn't approve of spirits either. Tabitha tentatively poured herself some more but noticed that Huckleberry's attention was focused on the opposite side of the room, where several round tables were spaced out and more than two dozen gentlemen gathered. She was surprised to see the Agent suddenly shuffling a deck of well-worn cards.

"Gambling Sir?"

"Jus' for charity Tabby," his own smile was sweet and crooked and if it had been shone in her direction Tabitha wasn't sure she could have stopped herself from reaching out to him. In any case it wasn't and Tabitha was hit with the unhappy realization that there would be no dancing or socialization between the two of them tonight. Not that she had truly expected of hoped for that, no of course not. "Have fun and don't get in trouble now, y'hear?"

"No Sir," but Huck was already walking off towards the gaming tables. Sauntering. Confident. Tabitha sipped her punch. She could watch the dancers and listen to the musicians, pick at a pastry or three. That would be much better than sitting in her room. Alone. She sighed but it was noticed by a tiny woman, a veritable granny if there ever was one, who beamed her wrinkled face up at Tabitha and handed her a little iced cake. "Thank you," Tabitha accepted it along with a pat on her shoulder. The cake was very sweet and delicious and the clerks humour rose. This was something new and she should enjoy it for what it was and—and—Huckleberry Finn could just go sit on a tack!

She regretted the remark as soon as it flittered through her head and turned towards the dancing partners quickly, just in time to have her sticky drink spill over the dark coat of the man unfortunate enough to be standing behind her at that time.

"What the f—"

"I am so sorry!" Tabitha's eyes bulged, ignoring the man's flashing eyes and outrage, her own cry louder than his curse as she hastily placed her cup on the table and began to dab at the wet fabric of his brown coat with her white shawl. What a horrible blunder! Oh dear oh dear, she was getting flustered and her felt wasn't helping!

"What the hell do you think you're—"

He was upset. "A napkin!" She turned back to the table and another old lady helpfully placed one in her searching hands. Tabitha unfurled the piece of linen and was about to continue wiping at the man's attire when he snatched it from her fingertips.

"I can take care of it myself thank you very much!"

Oh. Well maybe he wasn't as angry as she had first thought. Though his tone…Tabitha decided to accept his words for what they were, taking a deep breath in relief. _I can't go ten minutes without embarrassing the Secret Service!_

"You're very welcome Sir," Tabitha nodded, folding her soiled shawl over one arm, her smile back in place, and misinterpreting the man's look of utter disbelief for one of resignation. "Again, I'm incredibly sorry. I hope that it," she gestured to the swabbed material, "doesn't dampen your enjoyment here tonight." There was a pause where he just looked at her (he was younger than she had first thought) and then Tabitha winced, realizing her comment was also a very bad pun, inappropriate for the circumstances. He was taller than she and stepped forward with an air of menace and recognition that Tabitha was shocked to feel and couldn't explain in the slightest (perhaps she reminded him of an acquaintance); but instead of barking at her like she fully expected, his lips curved and a deep chuckle followed.

"You like jokes, do you Miss?"

"I'm sorry Sir," Tabitha responded quickly, shaking her head even though she did happen to like jokes very much even if she didn't always understand them. Was he trying to make one now? Tabitha frowned, looked down at the floor, and then back to the circling couples, her voice soft. "I just wanted to go watch the dancers." He turned his head to glance behind them and Tabitha's eyes fell on the markings running down his neck. The tattoos didn't scare her or shake any ladylike sensibilities that her Aunt had tried to impress upon Tabitha since birth, in fact the clerk brightened. He had roughened features and was in need of a shave but perhaps he was simply trying to grow a beard.

"You like dancing?" He watched her with a grin. Was that an offer? He was a very intense individual.

". . .I do Sir, though I don't have much practical experience in the activity." She hadn't truly been interested in Aunt Julia's attempts to teach her proper steps and her feet would inevitably trip over themselves. Her female cousins could apparently dance like angels. She had been more comfortable being swung around by David and his friends. He chuckled again as if her answer was amusing, pleasing, and Tabitha couldn't stop herself from startling when he quickly reached out and clasped her wrist, tugging. That wasn't entirely appropriate either—

"So let's get some more experience."

She really should not have laughed, but it just bubbled out! And she did want to dance. It would have been pathetic to stand around all night by herself like a spinster already put on the shelf. She was only twenty! "A-alright!" But he was already pulling her towards the music. It didn't take long to realize he wasn't the best dancer either. He scowled frequently which was unexpected but Tabitha was too caught up to notice his more malevolent glances at those that happened to brush past them. And if he was a tad too close, well. . .there were many people dancing and it was crowded.

"Are you a sailor?" she asked brightly, hopefully. Before his brow could become too furrowed Tabitha continued. "You have tattoos," she nodded purposely at his neck and shrugged. "And I notice one on your hand as well. . ." The clerk knew of the unsavoury reputation some seamen had on land and she rushed to assure him that she was not of that mind. "All the men in my family are in the navy. It's tradition." He snorted.

"I would've thought you were from the country." Tabitha wouldn't have known to see the implied insult in those words and nodded heartily.

"In Maryland! My Aunt has a lovely acreage—well, my Uncle did before he passed but it's my Aunt's land now." The man seemed to recollect himself and looked away as they danced through a turn.

"Yeah I was out for a while but I was sent back for uh medical reasons." Tabitha was all interest.

"What happened?" He looked down at her, only an inch or so taller than her in her heels, and said one word.

"Pirates."

Tabitha tightened her grip on his shoulder, her tanned face paling. It was one of the many fears she held for the Admiral on his voyages. "You were shot?"

"Twice. And when that healed up they wanted me to stay here in Washington."

The song ended, which was good as Tabitha felt as if her knees were about to go from underneath her. The navy had asked him to stay in Washington? Then he must be on some sort of mission for the government as well—but then why hadn't she seen him at the Suremount? She asked his name impulsively. He looked at her dress—it was nice to be admired but that really wasn't what Tabitha wanted—and winked.

"McKee. Val McKee. Short for Valentine." She felt her cheeks bloom slightly.

"I'm Tabitha Wentworth and it was nice to meet you Mr. McKee. Thank you kindly for the dance." She had only gone three steps, hoping to retrieve her shawl from where she'd left it on a chair, when his hand once again encircled her wrist firmly, halting her progress abruptly. She met his cold blue eyes and he chuckled. It wasn't an unpleasant sound but for some reason Tabitha found her nervous smile winding it's way onto her mouth.

"We don't have to stop right now Miss. You should grab all the experience you can."

Tabitha peeked over at the gaming tables: everything was in full swing over there, hands folded or tossed and men laughing in great guffaws. Huckleberry must have been winning because he had not come to fetch her. Val snorted but had not released her. "You don't care for cards?"

"Oh no, it's not that. Hearts is a lot of fun." The boys had taught her on one of their many outings. "I just wanted to check on my—my escort. He's still at the tables."

"And left you all alone."

Tabitha looked from left to right. There must have been over a hundred people present.

"Sir, I'm hardly alone." There was that grin again.

"You bet you aren't."

It was another hour before Tabitha noticed large numbers of people leaving. The tables were breaking up and most of the food had been eaten, dishes cleared away. She was breathless from the music and the dancing and all the question Mr. McKee had asked. He was incredibly focused and yes, intent; though Tabitha didn't believe he truly enjoyed all their jumping about, he somehow managed to send away two other gentlemen who had come asking for a dance. At least that was why she had thought they had approached them.

"Enough! Enough!" Tabitha laughed, clapping her hands along with the majority of couples as the last chords of the fiddles faded away. She was dreadfully warm and hoped she wasn't perspiring overtly. "Please, I need to catch my breath." She had never had so much physical contact with a man not a relation in her life, and while a bit giddy with the attention she knew the proper thing to do would be to find Agent Finn and see if he was prepared to leave. Maybe. . .maybe Mr. McKee wouldn't mind being introduced? In fact she was sure she saw a familiar hat winding its way across the room. "Oh that was fun!"

"Liked it huh." He was chuckling at her again and Tabitha laughed with him.

"Of course! Who wouldn't?" She shut her lips at that and glanced away, taking one last deep breath. Had that sounded coy? She hoped not. Half of Huckleberry's face appeared some ways away and, even with their earlier troubles, Tabitha was glad to see him. "My friend is coming over. Would you like to meet him?"

There was no response.

"Mr. McKee?" Tabitha turned around but Valentine was gone, there wasn't a shadow of him to be seen.

"Ready to go Tabby?"

Huckleberry had an aura of tired satisfaction about him and, despite her new confusion over Mr. McKee's departure, Tabitha felt she did as well. She realized on the way home that she had forgotten her shawl but it didn't matter greatly. She could always put some more savings towards a nicer one. Or attempt knitting again.

That night Tabitha dreamt of horses for the first time in months.

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"Will you be joining our afternoon frivolities Miss Wentworth?"

Tabitha tried—oh dear Lord did she try!—to not bite her lip, pressing her mouth into a tight little grin while her cheeks flared with a girlish blush, gaze alternating between the cobblestones slick with autumn dew and the penetrating (partly amused) watchfulness of the distinguished naval captain. Her initial awe—and yes, no small amount of trepidation—at his title, exotic appearance, and flawless diction, had melted into a shy embarrassment over the passing weeks. Captain Nemo was a complete gentleman! Despite the uncomfortable reality of his. . ._ethnicity_ that would undoubtedly be commented on, Tabitha was positive that even her Aunt would have to admire his manners and etiquette and immense presence of being! It was like a Mr. Darcy brought to life!. . .an older, unmarried, Indian Mr. Darcy. Oh he was such a delight! Tabitha had heard the word 'pirate' bandied about early on by Doctor Scurlock and Inspector Abberline, and had scolded them as harshly as she could. By hiding the whiskey.

The brunette wished she could feel the same way towards the others who had accompanied the Captain across the Atlantic: Mrs. Harker had such an untouchably, superior carriage and no appetite; Doctor Jekyll was a twitchy fellow whom she had observed yelling at himself on more than three occasions. The Frenchman had been a pleasant surprise however, and Tabitha still wasn't certain what to think about the Coat, but the three men had disappeared for a mission south with Mister Hickok almost as soon as they had touched American soil. In the end it truly didn't matter how she felt. Tabitha had a job to do and, as she had promised the Admiral and Agent Thatcher, she would do it to the best of her ability. And her job now was to wait. It was **not** to run off on a pleasure ride in that amazing Automobile with the more active participants of the Secret Service and it's British counterpart. Not when Huckleberry was. . .was. . .

"Thank you Captain," Tabitha clasped her hands genteelly in front of her sweetly patterned day dress, giving a nod to the men already sliding into the extraordinarily lush interior of the silver and ivory behemoth. "But I'd best stay at my post." The Captain's low chuckle was full of warmth.

"As is proper for any good sailor." Tabitha beamed, unable to deny the affect of what, to her, was a supreme compliment. He inclined his turbaned head and strode purposely towards his creation just as a friendly hand touched her upper arm, Tabitha turning to greet Mrs. Oakley—the only one missing from the outbound party that she could see—with an ever ready smile. The woman had been so kind to Tabitha since the unpleasantness, had been completely closed-lipped about the younger woman's emotional display.

"It wouldn't be no trouble Tabitha," she offered a kind smile, adjusting the brim of her masculine hat. "Even that ol' slave driver Sawyer says he'd make no objection to ya lockin' up for a couple o' hours." The secretary had clamped a hand over her mouth and the robust laughter that wanted out over the false image of an overbearing, strict Tom Sawyer, but was almost shocked at Annie's suggestion, shaking her head and inching her way back to the entrance of the Suremount Hotel. "I would never shirk my duty inside my prescribed hours and—"

"Alright, alright," Annie held up a hand. "I won't argue witcha." She glanced up over Tabitha's shoulder as she spoke, shaking her head with a slight frown, though when the brunette took a momentary look in the same direction—happily the hotel windows spic and span and shining with the early morning light—there was nothing of interest to note.

_It had all been so fast, the events moving forward like a runaway train and leaving Tabitha faltering in the dust of their consequences. The unannounced League (arriving in the middle of the night!) had been a shock to be sure, whom Tabitha thought, sadly, were not at all impressed with what they saw. Well, the Coat—a Mr. Skinner—was pretty vocal about the lack of grandeur to be found in Washington; and whilst questioned about the presence of the register when Tabitha was inevitably caught scribbling in everyone's names, Mrs. Wilhelmina Harker stared down at her icily for close on ten minutes, (Tabitha bearing it with a wide sleepy smile), finally sniffing disdainfully at the small stack of novels Tabitha kept behind the desk and retreating to what she described as a 'hopefully passable cup of tea'. None of these earlier moments meant anything in the long run as the following week dawned with a mass exodus, all still in residence leaving for McKinley's rally. President McKinley. Whom the Secret Service was supposed to protect and thus fulfill so many initial obligations._

_Unfortunately, McKinley hadn't been the intended target that day. It was poor, wiry Mr Collins who was assassinated amidst so many onlookers. The gunman escaped._

_And Agent Finn had been caught in the crossfire._

_Mrs. Harker and Doc had carried Huckleberry between them, Annie and the Captain rushing ahead and behind respectively while Inspector Abberline and Agent Sawyer had apparently been left to secure the perimeter. Tabitha cried and vomited (not precisely in that order) at the first sight of blood seeping copiously from Agent Finn's upper chest, while Doc cursed in such foul language for her to lock the doors and find some Goddamn hot water. Recovering herself as speedily as possible, Tabitha held back her blubbering long enough to heat a reasonable sized boiler in Signora's kitchen, but as she hauled it into Huckleberry's room—so stark and expressionless and not at all like the man she thought she knew—along with several clean towels that were immediately taken from her slack grip, her eyes were red-rimmed and evidence of tear stains marred her cheeks._

_"—bullet hasn't passed through!"_

_"I know that, you backwater physician!"_

_"I've heard better insults from illiterate prosti—"_

_"Stop arguing and save him!"_

_Mrs Oakley had escorted her out at that point, offering a multitude of assurances that Doctor Scurlock and Mrs. Harker would see Agent Finn as fit as a fiddle, none of which Tabitha, in a rare moment of despair and cynicism, believed for one second. The sharpshooter found her late that night, dressed in night gown and wrap, silently bathing Huckleberry's feverish forehead. The single candle wavering from atop Huck's side table only increased the pathetic aura of the situation. Tabitha looked up at the blond with very near anguish for all of two seconds, before rubbing a hand across her eyes and trying to resume a professionally concerned façade which of course made her appear ten times worse._

_"I-I just thought that. . .that he shouldn't be alone." She blinked repeatedly, a hand reaching to caress his dark hair until the impropriety of the action had Tabitha jerking back. Annie took pity on her._

_"Go on back to bed Tabitha. I'm goin' change Finn's dressing and you seem fit to fall over."_

_"But I-" the brunette yawned and Annie smiled, only wishing to lighten the younger woman's spirits._

_"Didn't you mention havin' some kinda outing planned in the next day or so?"_

Ten minutes after the Automobile pulled away, after Tabitha had checked on the cleaning girls on the second floor and wiped her glasses and considered dusting the file room, there was a crash from the area of the dining room, a distinct clatter of pots and pans. With the heavy ring of keys jangling at her side she left the front desk and moved through the various doorways, an expression of complete befuddlement growing.

"Hello?"

She jumped at a sudden dull thunk and lifted her skirts for speed at the quickly following cry of alarm, pushing open the doors of the kitchen in time to see the wrinkled, silver-haired Signora standing menacingly over the skinny meat boy, gleaming butcher knife in one ancient fist. For the life of her, Tabitha couldn't recall ever being told or asking the Irish boy's name, but the trickle of blood matting the red hair at his temple had the secretary gasping in alarm and moving forward only to rear back as the blade was suddenly trained on her instead.

"Signora!" Tabitha's heart was pounding. What had happened here? If the boy hadn't been shrinking into himself in fear all rationality would have prodded Tabitha into thinking he had started it—robbery or mocking abuse being the topmost reasons. But as her eyes scanned the room while Signora hissed and cackled in her native Italian, the brunette's gaze hit upon two ledgers and—"My register!" Tabitha drew back her hand with a loud squeak when the knife chopped down in one smooth arc. "You're a thief!" It was not at all the most intelligent thing to say at that moment as the Signora's eyes flashed with a sheen of a madness. Oh Lord Above, what was Tabitha to do? Both she and the boy had stumbled upon something they were obviously not meant to see and this surprisingly spry old cook was clearly not willing to let them live to tell the tale!

"Why would you do this?" Tabitha asked through hurried breaths, internally telling herself between pauses not to cry. She knew the woman _could_ speak English, had grown up in the affluent lake districts of England although born in a much warmer climate, but for some reason simply wouldn't. All Tabitha could pick out were fanatically groaned titles like 'Maestro' and 'Moriarty.' It was at a repetition of this last word—when Tabitha was darting away from another well aimed swing, trying to get closer to the boy who did not look well at all—that a whirlwind seemingly burst into the room, the door smashing open, forcing Tabitha to dive for cover by the injured redhead. She glanced up after a moment of silence, still attempting to keep the boy protected in her semi-prone position, and felt all the blood drain from her face. Signora was dangling three feet in the air, her nails clawing at Mrs. Harker who was holding her there by the neck. The Englishwoman's long auburn hair was pulled back in a thick almost messy chignon. She wore a stained medical apron over her black skirt and plain white blouse, and her usual bright blue eyes were now blazing a pure blood red.

"M-M-Mrs. Harker?"

"I thought I would inform you that Mr. Finn is recovering marvellously," the woman's wrist flexed, Signora's legs kicking out uselessly. "He put up quite the argument but in the end he came around to the speediest course of treatment, laying abed as long as he has." The unexpectedly calm, low tones tightened Tabitha's throat as she attempted to nod and smile at Mrs. Harker's diagnoses.

"That's wonderful news ma'am." The boy whimpered and Tabitha lay a hand on his hunched shoulder.

"Indeed." Oh my. Had her _face_ changed colour? "Miss Wentworth perhaps it would be best if at this time you escorted young Liam—" That was his name! "home. No need to rush, that scalp laceration is inconsequential. Bathe it with a saline solution and there shouldn't even be a scar."

"Saline, ma'am?" Tabitha slowly got to her feet, pulling Liam with her and wondering how much breath Signora had in her. Mrs. Harker gave an audible sigh and leaned her head to look around the writhing Italian, beautiful blue eyes back in place. Tabitha gulped. Had she. . .seen?

"Salt. And water."

"Wonderful, ma'am."

Prodding Liam out the back door, Tabitha hastily scooped up the fallen ledgers and followed without a backward glance. However her thoughts were not stuck on Mrs. Harker's seemingly preternatural strength or unnatural appearance, (trick of the light? lack of blood to vital organs due to her terror? There were a multitude of plausible explanations.), but on the future safety of Signora. How would a woman of her advanced age understand the consequences for robbery? It was unlikely Tabitha would ever see the cook ever again!

Four days later the Nautilus had set sail for London, Huckleberry was leading an expedition across country along with the recently returned and fatigued Dr. Jekyll, (no word had been heard from Mr.'s Skinner or Gaudon), and secretary Tabitha Wentworth was once again left alone. Until a familiar—though bruised—woman happened to knock upon her door December 8th, her once pristine travel dress frayed and soiled and the first snowflakes of winter melting on her white-blond head.

Tabitha looked out at the famous face in shock.

"Miss Owens!"

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**Before**

It was a rough and tumble section of the city that Liam led Tabitha through—the secretary refusing to let the poor boy go on is merry way and possibly collapse in the streets and be robbed of all his worldly possessions and he with a head wound on top of the shock of his earlier debacle!—and while he was most likely perfectly correct that she was dragging unwanted attention their way, what with how zealously Tabitha was holding on to the much contested register, the brunette simply couldn't bear to let it go.

Oh Signora!

"Oh my shoes!"

"I tolds ye it be muddy Miss."

Muddy was not the word Tabitha would have said, but because of her need to please everyone and a desire to be polite she neither said 'muddy' nor the word she was actually thinking, which was 'filthy'. Refuse of all sorts littered the decrepit cobbled road, practically pasted into corners where groups of old and bent men sat drinking from dark bottles even at this time of day. Despite what Tabitha knew of Washington's sanitation efforts, there was still the odd overhead call heard from various alleyways or those below to _'Hit the wall!'_

"Have you always lived here Liam?"

"Na always. Came in from Chicago when I wus six, caught a ride on a granary car." Tabitha laughed along with him though she didn't quite understand why it should be so funny. "I lives in Peggy's place."

"Is she a relative of yours?"

"She's better'n me Ma ever wus."

The building beef-boy Liam finally indicated as his own was three stories of clapboard and miracle by all accounts. At one point it had been white-washed but smoke and decay had done it's job and now it was simply another home among thousands that the Governor would surely like seen wiped off the city plans to further infrastructure in what was most assuredly the better part of town. Both Tabitha and Liam were adamant: he, that he could see himself up the rickety fire-escape stairway that wound itself up what had to be the back side of his home; she, that she could not let him endure such an undertaking alone. Squeals of what sounded like a school full of children and the sudden appearance of a young sharp-eyed redheaded woman brought all discussion to a standstill, and Tabitha was brought into crowded but well maintained room that seemed to function as both kitchen and laundry.

It was hot and humid and the seat Tabitha had been given had a slight sheen of moisture on it's rungs. Peggy was no old woman caricature, (though her home was indeed filled with so many children she scarcely knew what to do with them); but her hands were very red and cracked from hours spent making use of her large wash basin, where she not only kept 'the ragamuffins' clothes clean but half the neighbourhood's as well. _"It's hows I keeps my rent Miss."_ Tabitha thought she had a pretty face, slim and angular, though Aunt Julia and her cousins would have been offended by the complete proliferation of freckles across the entirety of Peggy's otherwise pale flesh.

"Is that an important book? No one's gonna steal it on ya."

"Oh? I—Oh!" Tabitha looked down at the register still clutched to her bosom and quickly relaxed her white-knuckled grip, the old leather creaking under her fingers. "I didn't think that at all, I swear! It just—It seems that it's more important and less important than I ever thought it was." Tabitha knew by the look Peggy gave her that the words made very little sense. "I'm sorry, forgive my intrusion. And don't think that Liam is responsible for any of…oh his poor head."

"I'll be fine Miss."

"Hold on a tic and Heath will see you home. Heath!"

"Who? Wha—Oh no, no that's very kind but I don't need anyone to show me the way."

"It isn't kindness Miss," Peggy hit her with a penetrating gaze before cuffing the ear of one child who thought to sneak in and swipe a biscuit. "Don'tcha read the papers? Someone's going around guttin' young ladies like y'rself—"

"Sensationalist stories, that's all," Tabitha shook her head rapidly and stood. She didn't have the time or the desire to hear about any more bloodshed, and if Agent Finn was truly on the mend like Mrs. Harker suggested then she really needed to get back to the Suremount as quickly as possible. "Thank you for the offer but I'll be…just…fine." She could only trail off as a mountain of a man filled the doorway. Well not wide, no, not at all; the man Peggy was now instructing—(was he her husband? Tabitha hadn't the foggiest notion)—seemed as thin as a post in his old brown suit and battered boiler hat, but incredibly tall and badly in need of a shave. His wheat coloured whiskers filled out what must have been an almost gaunt face, and except for the presence of his terribly hard eyes and scarred knuckles (which Tabitha did not stare at, not at all!), the secretary could have easily assumed this Heath to be an unfortunate dullard. Especially as he said not one word on the seemingly endless walk back to Tabitha's part of the city. Thankfully Tabitha spotted someone much livelier mere moments after Heath quit her company.

Well, technically the man spotted her.

"Mr McKee!" Tabitha smiled, turning her startled exclamation into a laugh as the gentleman boldly came up behind her, running his thumbs jauntily around his dark suspenders. "What a nice surprise!"

"Remembered me, did you? That's good. I remembered you too." That grin was the same as she recalled from their first meeting, as was the intense look in his dark eyes. He stood just a little too close but Tabitha felt it would be unnecessarily rude to make a point of it by stepping back. "Any more experience since we last spoke, Miss?" The mousy brunette was struck dumb for all of a moment, not having a clue to what Mr McKee referred, until a wall of sorts broke in her brain and Tabitha was able to stumble upon what he must have meant by his remark.

"Oh no, no. I haven't been anywhere to try out any new steps since the last time I danced. With you." A slight blush came to her cheeks and she thought Mr McKee seemed very pleased about something. She had had a wonderful time dancing, one of the happiest moments she could recall in a long, long time, made all the better by the fact that it had been a sailor to monopolize her company.

"Too much work will put wrinkles on a pretty girl's face." Tabitha had what was most likely an inane response on her tongue when Mr McKee's face wrinkled in distaste itself. He looked to be staring rather hard at a horse and buggy that chose that moment to clomp passed, and Tabitha couldn't help but agree as many city horses were kept in deplorable condition and not nearly as well fed as those in the country. He gave the register she held a sudden tap. "Is this work?" Oh how ridiculous did she feel! She'd been carrying this bone of contention around Washington all day. It had caused nothing but ill will with her other Service members. She should never have resurrected it from the back room!

"It used to be, but now I'm just trying to find a way to be rid of it."

"Isn't this your lucky day." Mr McKee's expression changed so quickly, and before Tabitha could murmur protest or an alternate conclusion, he slid Tabitha's arm through his own, transferring the register to his own intractable grasp. "I'm a collector of antiques, so why don't I take this off your hands." It wasn't really a question, though Tabitha felt for sure it needed an answer even as she was flustered by the sensation of his leg rustling the fabric of her day dress. My Goodness, Tabitha was certain she could feel the pressure of Mr McKee's hip against her own while they walked, or at least the indentation of a thick gun belt. The danger sent an unexpected thrill through her.

"I. . .Yes! Yes, that would be very helpful. Thank you."

"Excellent. Now why don't you show me where you call home sweet home, Tabitha. I'll get you there safe."

**After:**

Tabitha Wentworth sat in front of her wash stand in worried contemplation. Her hair wasn't thick enough to take the hundred strokes of most society ladies, not like her cousins with their full heads of soft ginger curls, and the repetitive movement was more of a frustration, Tabitha not at all feeling it's supposed calming effects on the female humours.

Miss Susanna Owens had not explained the full sorry predicament of her sordid tale, and Tabitha imagined it had been a sordid tale indeed given the state of the poor woman's gown when she had fallen into Tabitha's care not three weeks ago, let alone her own gorgeous pale tresses that had been tangled, unkempt and unseen by salon or ladies maid in quite some time for what Tabitha reckoned. The secretary had set to work, providing the role herself as the staff had returned to their homes for the night; a fire lit, water boiled, bath prepared, clothes laid out: all was done with speed and precision and only the first cup of tea was dropped in Tabitha's haste to nourish Miss Owens, the sharp porcelain toed to the side so as not to slice open an unwary foot—most likely her own—in the middle of her back and forth journey.

Most inquiries to the medium's condition were met with succinct replies that didn't ease Tabitha's heart or mind one whit; Miss Owens had no luggage, no money, and no one whom the brunette could contact in hopes of helping her find a suitable location for rest. That wasn't to say that Tabitha was prepared to throw the woman out—no, Heaven forbid! It was simply that Tabitha was sure there had to be someone searching for Miss Owens, worried for her, and wishing her well in this world. Tabitha said as much as she brought the woman a bowl of warm broth. Miss Owens' unexpected reaction began as sharp laughter and dwindled to such a soft, heart wrenching weeping that Tabitha left off with her questions and finally allowed the renowned psychic some peace and quiet.

The next day it was clear Miss Owens' agitation would find no rest in Washington; her home was in California and it was there she wished to go with as little delay as possible. Tabitha had found herself in such a pickle the last time this woman had entered and exited the Suremount in so speedily a manner; the others would have demanded answers to their questions: who had perpetrated this business? What had they wanted? What was discussed? Why had Susanna felt the need to return to the hotel when she had been in such a hurry to leave it before? But Tabitha couldn't accept seeing the pristine, oh so collected woman, in any way distressed, and thus brought forward her own purse with all her savings and offered it in order for the psychic to purchase a ticket West. Tabitha didn't really know how much such a ticket by train would cost.

"I can_not_ take your money."

"You wouldn't be taking it Ma'am," Tabitha smiled gently, pressing the little satchel with flower embroidery into the woman's denying hands. "Consider it a gift—"

"It's charity, you little fool, and I _can't_ abide charity."

Obviously this was a matter of pride alone and Tabitha didn't give the insult a second thought.

"Then what if you performed a service for me? It wouldn't be charity—No, no!" Tabitha laughed as Susanna glanced about the dining room. After Signora's departure Tabitha had been wary of hiring another cook without Agent Thatcher's permission, but a few of the cleaning girls had proved able hands in the kitchen and were taking turns with breakfast and dinner. Of course, this often lent to a lack of order in their other duties, though the brunette was as quick as she could be in keeping them on task. "I don't need another mop and broom girl—I wouldn't dream of asking that of you!"

"Then what?"

"Could you. . ." Here Tabitha became nervous, her words sticking in her throat. She had admired Miss Owens' work for some time, had read all about her and her nationally famous clairvoyance, but after the seer's reluctance to display her gifts the last time she and Tabitha had spoken together, the clerk had her doubts that a second proposal would end much better. In true fashion however, Miss Owens knew exactly what Tabitha wanted and her pinched features smoothed with resignation.

"Very well. Give me your hands."

Tabitha gazed gently upon the candle glowing in the simple holder before the wash bowl, thinking perhaps it was time to be abed but yet unwilling to give herself up to sleep just yet. It was quiet in the hotel at night, mostly silent if one didn't take into account the general foot traffic outside. Tabitha had believed herself immune to the loneliness. She was in a place both figuratively and literally all by herself, a supervisor and a subordinate, and tonight she was the only one in the grand hotel. There had been a card from her cousin David—it now stood proudly on the small table beside her bed—which accompanied a lovely pearl brooch that would go well with any of her varied wardrobe pieces. There was a light but deep coating of snow on the ground outside, and Tabitha's mind wandered. Huckleberry and Agent Sawyer, Annie and the Doctor—well, two Doctors now—Inspector Abberline, and Mister Hickok: were they doing well serving their country in Alaska? What adventures had they found in such an unforgiving, desolate location? The sheer, crisp, savage beauty could almost be romantic, and Tabitha was sure that if Miss Austen had ever been given the chance the author surely could have found something beautiful to write about the most Northern state. Would Tabitha ever see such wonders? The notion had never crossed Tabitha's mind before; as her father's caretaker her future had been set. Secure and safe, Tabitha would have happily lived her life in Maryland, taking the Admiral's dictation an playing hostess for his numerous and important Naval guests. But being here in Washington amidst such people and endeavours. . .Tabitha should have been pleased with her lot—and she was, most assuredly!

_"What do you wish to hear, Miss Wentworth? I'm not blind to not have noticed the stack of popular novels located in your work space. Do you want to know about marriage? When your tall, handsome prince charming will come sweep you off your feet and away from this drudgery—"_

_"But I'm so happy here Miss Owens, please don't think I'm not! Do you see that in my palm? Really, I just want to know the truth."_

_"Many ladies, old and young, say that to me and none yet has truly meant it."_

_"I mean it Miss Owens, honestly I do! Good or bad, I want to know what you see for me."_

Tabitha leaned forward, lips pursed to blow out the orange flame, when a rattle the life of an earthquake seemed to go through the entire hotel. The clerk stood, gasping, one hand steadying her candle as she awaited more. . .that didn't come. Curious, Tabitha stepped out into the empty hallway. She had never feared living here by herself; she had not been a child to jump at shadows. But if she wasn't mistaken, Tabitha believed the source of the ruckus had originated on the roof. So many months had passed since she had last been led up the many stairs, through the locked doors, to feel the blast of wind and hear the impossible sound of a hot air balloon; as Tabitha made the journey again, legs burning with the speed she forced on them, hands grasping tightly to a ring of keys she had inherited, and no care at all for her nightgown-clad state of being, she did so with a much more exuberant heart.

It was snowing, but the face that met her own was still the same, if but somewhat tired and in need of a strong cup of tea.

"Merry Christmas Agent Thatcher," Tabitha spoke, pulling her head back from Rebecca's shoulder where she had flung herself moments before, and gave the Agent one last squeeze. The long curls of her hair were windblown and so were the woman's fine cheeks. Tabitha moved back as an older man approached with Rebecca's suitcase, raising her hand with the Suremount keys to rejoin their rightful owner. Agent Thatcher shook her head with a worn out smile and gently pushed Tabitha's hand away.

"Merry Christmas Tabitha. You've kept the hotel in one piece I see."

"Yes Ma'am! Of course Ma'am!"

"Good. And do we have any visitors?"

"No Ma'am, there's no one in residence."

"Wonderful. Then you can close up and come with me. Go get dressed."

"Go—Go with you?"

"No, no, I should wash up first."

"Oh! Of course, but go _where_ Ma'am?"

"New York. We'll have a nice dinner and then you can accompany me while I make the formal apologies."

"Apologies?" Tabitha was beginning to feel like one of those circus birds.

"Mr Collins had family you realize. His death is a matter of government failure, even if said government can admit no knowledge of his role in the McKinley affair." Rebecca asked the man to wait, picked up her luggage and made her way to the roof's entrance into the hotel, Tabitha following after with wide eyes. How had Agent Thatcher known—well certainly Agent Sawyer or Agent Finn had telegraphed—but they didn't even known she had left the country—

"Does the Collins family know we're coming?"

"His brother. Eddie. And no, he does not know we're coming to see him. I would rather give the man as little knowledge as possible about our plans."

"Is he. . .he is like the late Mister Collins?"

Rebecca chuckled.

"You'll see."


	2. Chapter 11

**Story Summary:** Tabitha Wentworth always thought her mission in life would be to keep house for her sterling father. Fortunately her family had other ideas and inadvertently gave the young woman a chance at real happiness. They'd take it back if they could.

**A/N:** Yes, the last chapter may have seemed like a lot of filler—sometimes it did to me too—but it was needed. There were things mentioned, people brought up—work with me, ok! It was needed! . . .In my opinion. Also, I'm going to be posting an entire cast list when this is all finished, but it may make a clearer picture if you know that Will is played by Denis Leary, Eddie is Steve Buscemi, and Heath is David Thewlis. Just in my head of course. Yes. Just in my head. _The Times_ article I mention was published January 31, 1900. William Goebel was a Democrat who had a reputation for supporting African Americans, women, and trade unions. He was shot after a controversial election where the Republican candidate was accused of ballot rigging.

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"It'll be nice to see ho—the hotel again." Tabitha's gaze bobbed from the news pages rustling in her hands to the sleepy gaze of the woman seated across. Rebecca had been in a constant state of bemusement since their delayed meeting with Mister Edward "Eddie" Collins, _("He's a twin? Oh my goodness, isn't that a rarity?")_ and was only now breathing a sigh of relief as they both returned to Washington, more than a week passed schedule. Tabitha was unaware of Agent Thatcher's rolling emotional spectrum—only that the accomplished woman was in finer spirits, most likely due to their comfortable accommodations in the private car—or that she herself was the cause of Rebecca's bewilderment.

"You seemed to be enjoying New York well enough."

"Well yes, of course," she was quick to explain, warming to the subject. "It's so beautiful and full of light! And the people—my goodness, I never would have dreamed there could be so many people!" Rebecca chuckled.

"I'll have to see you sent to London next. It takes barely any time at all in the Fogg's balloon." Tabitha couldn't repress her shudder but her smile widened a notch or two. It had been terrifying travelling from Washington to New York in the middle of a snowy Christmas Eve; she couldn't imagine the horror of travelling such a way over the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean.

"There could be nothing better than New Year's Eve in New York. A new century Ma'am!"

"Let us hope it's better than the last."

Rebecca hadn't detailed her European excursion, but, as her superior, Tabitha supposed it was the Agent's prerogative what information was relevant and what was on a need to know basis. It was clear even to the clerk that some of the ipolish/i had been wiped away from the woman's professional exterior. There was a certain sadness Tabitha had happened to glimpse, especially in the presence of the larger city's vagrant children. Perhaps Rebecca was finally feeling that entirely proper need to begin a family of her own? That would have been a rather personal question, but Tabitha wanted to ask if Rebecca had met the British League, and what was thought of their colourful array of agents (though none of them referred to themselves as such). She wanted to know what direction the Service was headed in, now that President McKinley was no longer under any apparent threat. She would have liked to wonder at her own purpose. . .

"Has your work been stimulating Tabitha? Have you been able to tolerate the boredom?"

"Ma'am?" A cold, wintry world rushed by through the glass of their window. There would have been a tremendous evergreen tree in Aunt Julia's great room over the holiday season, decorated with spun glass ornaments and delicate crocheted bells and angels, hardened with a sugar mixture to keep shape. One of the younger boys would invariably try to eat one and be banished to the kitchen—or the stables, as Tabitha herself had once been.

"I was told you came from a large family—a proud Naval tradition if I remember correctly. I would have thought you'd prefer Maryland this time of year. It's not far away." Tabitha blinked.

"It never occurred to me. The Admiral hasn't written so I believe he's still at sea. It wouldn't have been very much of a holiday without my father."

"Being alone doesn't bother you?"

"Oh I hate it, Ma'am," the clerk nodded earnestly. "It's one of the worst feelings in the world. . .if I may say so." There was no objection from Rebecca so Tabitha continued in a rare moment of vocal reflection. "There are times when you can be surrounded by people and feel like the only one in the world. And the only thing worse than that is being useless, of your life benefiting no one. I enjoy my work at the Suremount and I'm happy to help my country in whatever it asks of me." Her courage was beginning to fade and Tabitha once again opened her copy of _The Times_. "Being alone and-and _loneliness_ are two different things though. . .don't you think?"

There was a pause and then Tabitha met Agent Thatcher's small, tired smile with one of her own.

"I wonder if that's a concept Mister Collins could offer an opinion on."

"I'm sure of it Ma'am."

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_"This is ridiculous—what do you_ mean _he won't see us? It's been six days!"_

_"Am I blind?" He cocked his chin down and shot a glace at Mr. Heath. "She thinks I'm fuckin' blind. Do I look blind to ya? Or stupid. I bet that's it; ya think I'm stupid. Yeah, yeah, think I've never seen a woman before just cause I'm stuck draggin' this quiet son of a bitch from state to state-"_

_"Will."_

_A general pall settled over the cigar puffing, cigarette rolling audience as Mister Eddie Collins finally made an appearance, throwing open the door, a calm steely gaze falling on each and every person within his sightline which landed heavily on Tabitha as she took a sharp breath. Startled at his identical form to the late Mr. Collins, the brunette veritably jumped when Mr. Heath's large, battered hand came down on her shoulder, though she laughed softly at her own silliness and apologized._

_"Yeah boss?"_

_"Shut up. Thatcher is it?"_

_"Yes, we've been in New York for—"_

_"You too. Heath, what the fuck is this?"_

_Her bearded protector wearily shook his head but said nothing. "Get yer ugly arses in here."_

_"Mister Collins," Rebecca visibly bristled. "I'm here to offer the most sincere condolences—"_

_"Not you." From out of nowhere Eddie suddenly had a stub of a cigar between his thin lips and Tabitha found herself being prodded towards the protected room. "Just her."_

_Fifteen minutes later Tabitha and Rebecca were sent on a whirlwind tour of New York, secure in promises of no hard feelings from Mister Collins or his business partners which Tabitha felt was a lovely thought coming from a grieving brother._

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Agent Thatcher spent the majority of January in her office catching up on correspondence and reading through several of the files that had been meticulously organized—the 'G's' as far as Tabitha could figure by the way the brown and yellowed folders had been slightly tossed around. They would sit for breakfast in the morning and dinner in the evening, (silently mostly, but warmly) and at noon Tabitha would lock up to bring Rebecca's letters to the office. This quickly became the secretary's favourite time of day as her schedule had no sooner been set than Mr McKee appeared, beginning what Tabitha liked to see as a tradition of the sailor accompanying her on the walk.

He was very verbose and Tabitha was delighted with his quantity of questions about her work in the Suremount, how interested he was with the comings and goings of it's usual residences and the effort that she herself put in to the running of things. Tabitha felt sympathetic for Valentine's plight, being kept on shore by a government that wouldn't allow him to mingle with other agents, however she knew it was impossible—traitorous even—to explain everything. Her particular position in the hotel was a sacred trust; she made her vows signing privacy agreements in Agent Thatcher's presence last year, and she didn't always feel that Mr McKee understood this. But he dressed so nicely and would often bring her flowers, that Tabitha felt perfectly fine forgiving his frequent irritated moods. He was not a hostile individual, no, and the brunette would never have suffered such ill-manners; he was simply an intense character with a varying personality.

Though he never spoke of it, Tabitha felt for certain Mr McKee was attempting to court her. She had never been courted, but surely this was how gentlemen conducted themselves, being available to their prospective lady and bringing her little presents, like flowers. Tabitha couldn't bring the subject up of course, and it was all rather thrilling principally given Miss Owens' prediction that Tabitha's future husband wouldn't speak romantically. At the time it had been quite a blow indeed, but now her feelings were all up in the air. . .especially since Tabitha knew she did not care deeply for Mr McKee. Did that make her a bad person? Aunt Julia would have had much to say on the matter, but it wasn't as if Tabitha was allowing any liberties; Mr McKee held her arm, her wrist, but she had never _embraced_ him, and he had most definitely never kissed her!

During the first week of February the hotel received word via a telegram sent on the ten thirty train that Agents Finn and Sawyer et al were to be expected closer to March. _"It must have been one of those Englishmen who wrote this, Ma'am. Look at the fine hand writing! I'll make sure their rooms are spotless!"_ And Mister Collins sent her a copy of _The Times_ like he had promised he would, though Tabitha would have liked to have heard better news beyond a proposed subway tunnel linking Manhattan and Brooklyn—not that that wasn't exciting in and of itself, but the main story was of a progressive politician who had been shot in Kentucky on his way to the Capitol. A few questions at the post and she was informed that Mr Goebel had previously succumbed to his injury, which made her sad to hear, and she wrote Mister Collins to express her thanks and thoughts on the situation. Aunt Julia would not have been pleased.

Agent Thatcher would be gone before any of the Alaskan Mission arrived, much to Tabitha's dismay—let alone Tom and Huckleberry, who had to be pacified by cold comfort letters—but a lovely Spring joined them in Washington and brought Tabitha more adventure than she ever would have imagined.

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"Tabby. . .where in the blue blazes did you get this?"

Tabitha looked up from where she was kneeling on the floor of the filing room—the business was never completely finished considering the copious notes the clerk had finagled out of Annie and the gentlemen on their return—and smiled at Agent Finn's intent perusal of the newspaper sent from New York that she had kept on her desk in remembrance of her extended holiday. She put the stack of newly typed papers aside, dusted her hands on her cream apron and stood, glad to enjoy a little conversation.

"Mister Collins was kind enough to send that to me. Didn't Agent Thatcher tell you—"

"Yeah Tabby."

"And I bought a brand new hat—"

"I heard."

"But I could never wear it around here, I'd be accused of putting on airs."

"Who'd do that?"

"Why. . ." She had become flustered rather quickly and really didn't want to bring her cousins into this, it had just been a slip of the tongue after all. "—Have you ever been to New York City, Agent Finn?"

"Once or twice, I reckon. Tabby, why would Eddie Collins be sendin' you newspapers 'bout dead wannabe governors?" They were only standing a few respectable inches apart but Huckleberry didn't look at her when he spoke. His eyes were glued to the paper and ink as if searching for an answer to a puzzle in his head, and his tone said he didn't like the answer he got. "Just a bunch o' slave lovers ain't they?"

Tabitha felt as if she'd swallowed her tongue. There had been a few times where she'd cried because of Huckleberry Finn, been jealous, even fewer where she'd been happy because of the Agent. Now. . .Oh, Tabitha could have spit she was so mad! Her face flushed and she did something she would never have even contemplated before. She shooed Huckleberry out of the room, just as a rightly confused Mrs Oakley came downstairs. The beautiful older blond leaned against the front desk, her raised eyebrow getting no response from Huck as to what really was going on here.

"There aren't any slaves any more **Agent Finn**. Our dear Mister Lincoln made sure of that, God rest his soul to the Heaven in which he deserves."

"And ain't that an epitaph."

"_Pardon_?"

"Nuthin' Tabby, nuthin'."

"—Can I help you with anything Mrs Oakley? Tea won't be served for another hour I'm afraid. Will Doctor Scurlock be joining you?" There was a snort from Finn, who continued (infuriatingly so) to covet Tabitha's newspaper, and what Tabitha was sure was a blush from Annie, but the sharpshooter didn't rise to Huck's bait.

"Doc's up with Hank and Fred in the big room and I doubt _tea_ is what they're interested in right now." Since returning from the north, the clerk had noticed Doctor Henry Jekyll had found himself dubbed 'Hank' by the other Service members. There must have been quite the bonding experience in Alaska to explain such camaraderie. "But where'd you get such pretty posies?" Tabitha looked at the clear vase resting on top of the desk—not fancy crystal like she'd find at home in Annapolis, just a rough glass that she'd been able to purchase at the store on the second street over—and the various blooms she had been able to fit in it. Most _were_ posies like Annie said, but there was a lovely sprig of lilac in the center and one large pink carnation that Valentine had given her just the other day.

"They're from a. . .a gentleman caller."

"A what?"

Tabitha didn't know why Agent Finn would find ithat/i so interesting (nor why Annie suddenly looked so smug—or was it proud?—as if she had won a bet or heard a fantastic piece of news), but the brunette straightened her shoulders and addressed them both with a smile that, in truth, had no basis to be so wide. "He's a gentleman—a friend of mine. And he brings me flowers."

"Who is he?"

Annie's hand flew out to whack Finn solidly on the arm.

"Well ain't that sweet," the woman smiled. "How long have ya known him?"

"I—I met him at the social Agent Finn and I attended last autumn."

Mrs Oakley left for a walk on a hoot of laughter, leaving a somewhat scowling Huck and a confused Tabitha to deal with each other. ". . .As I told Mrs Oakley, tea won't be served for another hour."

"I ain't no tea drinker Tabby."

"I know. Your coffee, then. I—Sir?"

Tabitha's eyes widened as Agent Finn boldly stepped forward, raising an ink-smudged hand to her hair, his ocean blue eyes regarding her muddy ones with an incomprehensible look. What was this? The only time Tabitha could recall Huckleberry actually touching her was when he escorted her to the dance. And there was no need to now!. . .was there? She was still mad at him, wasn't she? It's not like she hadn't thought about _touching_ Agent Finn, of running her fingers through his soft head of hair. Not that she had done it before, but she was certain such a lovely face could only be topped with the softest of hair—

"Cobweb."

"Cobweb. . .? Oh! Cobweb! I mean—" Tabitha startled as Huck pulled back, a greyish ball of sticky fluff between his fingers. "Yes! Cobweb. Of course. Thank you Hu—Agent Finn. Thank you."

"It were only a test, Tabby." Huck didn't move away, but a small furrow appeared between his eyebrows. Agent Finn did a lot of terribly difficult thinking.

". . .The cobweb?"

"What I said, callin' free men slaves. It were a test. Had to see what you'd say 'fore I asked you to come with me." Now it was Tabitha's turn to furrow her brows. Huckleberry chuckled softly. "You still mighty mad at me? I'm goin' on a mission Tabby, one not e'en Tomboy knows 'bout." Tabitha had assumed that Tom and Huckleberry shared everything with each other. Everything except. . .

"Does this have to do with Miss Fitzgerald?" Tabitha didn't know if she wanted to hear the answer. She didn't want to make him angry either, given how she had badly handled information concerning the dark eyed, thin woman before, but no one it seemed had reported anything pertaining to Brigitte Fitzgerald. Huckleberry Finn had been her last point of contact with the American Secret Service. The softly whispered question was clearly unexpected and Tabitha prepared herself for Agent Finn to be upset. But the man simply swallowed and shook his head.

"Classified. But what d'ya know 'bout Cathlicks? They got some pretty strange traditions, don't you think?"

"I-." What an odd question. "I've read my Bible, Sir. Is it much different from theirs?"

"Why don't I pick you up one on the way to Missouri and you can let me know."

"Missouri?"

"Yessum." And then Huck winked. "Think you can come home with me?"

The clerk's eyes became as wide as saucers.

"But I—You said this was a mission!"

"I'm lookin' for a relic Tabby. Don't see why I can't have me some homemade peach cobbler while I'm searchin'. Do you?"


End file.
